University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 


Rawhide  Rawlins 

Stories 


By  Charles  M.  Russell 


Rawhide  Rawlins  Stories 


By 

C.  M.  RUSSELL 

With  Illustrations  by  the  Author 


Printed  by 

Montana  Newspaper  Association 

Great  Falls,  Montana,  1921. 

(Fourth  Printing) 


Copyright  by 

C.  M.  RUSSELL 

1921 


CONTENTS 

A  Eide  in  a  Moving  Cemetery 1 

There's  More  Than  One  David 5 

Highwood    Hank    Quits         .        . 8 

Tommy  Simpson's  Cow         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  11 

How   Pat   Discovered   the  Geyser 13 

How  Louse  Creek  Was  Named 16 

Some  Liars  of  the  Old  West 18 

Mormon  Zack,   Fighter 22 

Johnny  Sees  the  Big  Show 25 

When    Mix    Went  to  School 29 

When  Pete  Sets  a  Speed  Mark 33 

Bill's  Shelby  Hotel 34 

A  Reformed  Cowpuncher  at  Miles  City 37 

The  Story  of  the  Cowpuncher 41 

Bronc  Twisters 46 

Johnny  Reforms  Landusky 54 

The   Horse 57 


FOREWORD 

WHEN  I  came  to  Montana,  which  then  was 
a   territory   with   no   railroads,   reading 
matter  of  any  kind  was  scarce.     Where 
there's  nothing  to  read,  men  must  talk,  so  when 
they  were  gathered  at  ranches  or  stage  stations, 
they  amused  themselves  with  tales  of  their  own  or 
others'  adventures.      Many  became  good  story- 
tellers.    I  have  tried  to  write  some  of  these  yarns 
as  nearly  as  possible  as  they  were  told  to  me. 

C.  M.  RUSSELL, 
Great  Falls,  Montana. 


A  Ride  in  a  Moving  Cemetery 

THK!  conversation  among  the  group  at  the  end  of  the  bar  had  turned 
to  the  subject  of  sudden  death,  when  Rawhide  cuts  in.     Several 
times  in  my  life  I've  been  close  to  the  cash  in,  he  says,  but  about  the 
nearest  I  ever  come  to  crossin'  the  big  range  is  a  few  years  ago  before 
I  move  to  Montana.     This  is  down  in  California,  an'  there's  a  friend 
with  me  at  the  time — I  ain't  givin'  his  name,  but  we'll  call  him  Bill 
Eoslin.     His  father's  a  Chicago  millionaire. 

Bill  crosses  over,  and  the  reason  I  don't  tell  his  right  name  is 
because  his  folks  never  know  what  kind  of  an  end  Bill  meets.  It  seems 
he's  out  west  for  his  parents'  health,  they  remainin'  in  the  east,  an' 
it  appears  they  never  get  the  facts  in  the  case.  They  believe  today  that 
their  lovin'  son  quit  this  life  in  bed,  with  a  preacher  hangin'  over  him 
an'  a  doctor  takin'  the  pulse  count.  The  truth  is  there  wasn't  no  one 
with  him  at  the  finish  but  me  an'  a  team  of  hosses,  an'  the  hosses  take 
the  long  trail  with  him,  leavin'  me  in  the  only  travelin'  cemetery  I've 
ever  seen. 

The  way  this  incident  starts,  we  are  leanin'  over  the  mahogany  in  a 
joint  in  Los  Gatos,  after  a  big  night  together.  As  we're  both  hoss 
lovers,  we're  givin'  this  subject  a  lot  of  our  conversation,  and  finally 
Bill  suggests  that  a  buggy  ride  would  be  a  good  thing,  as  we're  feelin' 
the  need  of  some  fresh  air.  We  leave  this  joy  parlor  arm  in  arm  and 
visit  a  friend  of  mine  who  owns  a  livery  stable.  I  tell  him  what  we're 
after,  and  he  gives  us  the  best  he's  got — a  span  of  bays  bred  in  the 
purple,  and  as  good  as  any  roadsters  in  California. 

For  fear  of  losin'  any  of  this  joyful  feelin'  we've  accumulated, 
we're  heeled  with  a  quart  of  corn  juice,  which  we're  partakin'  of  free 
and  reg'lar  as  we  spin  along  one  of  them  good  California  roads  with 
our  hosses  up  and  comin'.  Bill  keeps  tellin'  me  how  fancy  he  is  with 
the  reins,  not  forgettin'  to  criticise  my  drivin',  for  he's  reached  the 
stage  where  he's  gettin'  argumentative.  From  the  line  of  talk  he  hands 
out  I've  got  my  doubts  as  to  how  much  he  knows  about  hoss  flesh,  but 
I'm  not  disputin'  him  any,  for  the  whole  world  right  now  looks  so 
beautiful  to  me  that  there's  no  chance  for  an  argument  on  any  subject 
from  religion  or  Teddy  Roosevelt  to  the  best  brand  of  red  eye.  I  want 
to  sing,  and  do  warble  for  awhile,  but  Bill  ain't  got  no  musical  ear,  and 
he  claims  the  noise  I'm  makin'  is  frettin'  the  team  and  drivin'  all  the 
birds  out  of  the  country.  From  feelin'  musical  I  begin  to  get  sleepy, 
and  the  last  I  remember  I'm  dozin'  off.  I  recollect  Bill  reachin'  for 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


the  reins,  and  the  next  I  know  I've  a  vague  notion  I'm  in  an  airship 
and  can  see  clear  to  the  Mexican  line.  I'm  wonderin'  where  I  changed 
cars  when  the  light  goes  out. 


Eyes  Opened  on  a  Tombstone. 

When  I  wake  up  I'm  layin'  with  my  feet  higher  than  my  head,  and 
my  eyes  open  slowly  on  a  big  marble  tombstone  with  the  letterin': 

OUR  LOVED  ONE  AT  REST. 

JOINED  THE  ANGELS 

JUNE  30,  1911. 

I  think  to  myself,  I  may  be  their  "loved  one,"  but  they're  liars 
when  they  say  I'm  at  rest.  There  ain't  a  place  on  me  that  don't  ache; 
even  my  hair  is  sore  to  the  touch. 

I  start  figurin'  from  the  date  on  the  stone  how  long  I've  been  dead, 
but  my  brain  won't  work  and  I  give  it  up.  While  I'm  wonderin' 
whether  I'll  have  to  make  a  squarin'  talk  with  Peter,  the  gateman,  I 
hear  the  puff  of  a  switch  engine  somewhere  close  by. 

"Since  when,"  thinks  I,  "did  they  get  a  railroad  built  through 
here?"  But  the  thirst  I've  got  makes  me  think  maybe  I've  took  the 
southern  route,  and  perhaps  they're  haulin'  coal. 

"What  the  hell  you  doin'  here?"  breaks  in  a  voice,  and  it  ain't  no 
angel  talkin,  so  I  realize  that  I'm  in  the  same  old  world.  Lookin'  over 
the  tombstone,  sizin'  me  up,  is  the  toughest  lookin'  brakie  I  ever  see. 

"Where  am  I?"  I  inquire  without  movin'. 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  S 

r 

He  gives  me  the  name  of  the  burg,  but  it's  a  camp  I  never  heard  of. 

"If  you'll  lead  me  to  a  thirst  parlor,"  I  says,  "I'll  buy  somethin' 
and  you're  in  on  it." 

"You're  on,  Bo,"  says  he. 


RA  i  L  ROAD 

x     CROSSINC 


He  Tried  to  Cat  a  Freight  in  Two. 

Then,  sittin'  up  and  lookin'  around,  I  discover  I'm  on  a  flat  car 
loaded  to  the  rims  with  tombstones,  and  I'm  layin'  in  front  of  the 
biggest  one  in  the  lot.  Although  it  nearly  kills  me  to  move,  I  scramble 
to  the  ground,  and  the  brakie  pilots  me  to  a  little  joint  across  the  tracks. 
There's  nobody  in  there  but  the  bartender  and  the  flies,  and  this  toddy 
mixer  is  busy  readin'  a  newspaper.  Thro  win'  my  silver  on  the  bar, 
I  tell  him  to  get  in.  It's  pretty  bad  booze,  but  it  helps  bring  me  back 
to  life.  The  bartender's  sociable,  and  after  I  buy  a  couple  of  rounds 
for  the  three  of  us,  pickin'  up  the  paper  again,  he  says,  "quite  a  killin' 
across  the  state." 

"What  killin'?"  says  I. 

"Some  feller  runs  a  team  into  a  freight  that's  slidin'  down  a  grade 
about  three  hundred  miles  south  of  here, ' '  says  the  barkeep.  ' '  Smashes 
himself  and  the  team  into  chunks." 

"I'll  bet  that's  Bill  Roslin,"  I  says.     "Seems  to  me  I  was  buggy- 


4  RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 

ridin'  with  him  some  time  this  year.    Judgin'  from  where  I  find  myself 
this  mornin'  I  was  with  him  at  the  cash  in." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that!"  the  brakie  asks  the  bartender,  tap- 
pin'  his  forehead. 

"Turn  over,  you're  layin'  on  your  back,"  says  the  bartender. 
"That  smash-up  happens  a  day's  ride  from  here.  Wait  a  minute, 
though,"  he  goes  on.  "It  does  say  here  that  there's  a  feller  with  him 
that  they  can't  locate." 

"Well,  that's  me,"  says  I. 

I  find  out  later  that  Eoslin  tries  to  cut  a  freight  in  two  with  this 
team,  killin'  himself  and  both  hosses.  That's  when  I  land  among  these 
grave  ornaments  and  take  a  ride  in  a  movin'  cemetery. 


There's  More  Than  One  David 

I  NEVER  knowed  much  about  the  Good  Book,   says   Rawhide,   but 
there's  one  story  I've  always  remembered  since  childhood   that   I 
heer'd  at  Sunday  school.     That's  the  one  where  this  sheepherder, 
David,  hurls  a  rock  at  Goliar  an'  wins  the  fight  easy.       But  when  I 
growed  up  I  kind  o'  doubted  this  yarn  till  it's  proved  to  me  by  the  real 
thing  that  size  nor  weepons  don't  always  win  a  battle. 

One  time,  years  ago,  I'm  winterin'  in  a  little  burg.  I  ain't  men- 
tionin'  no  names,  as  some  of  the  parties  still  live,  an'  havin'  families  it 
might  cause  the  offspring  to  underestimate  the  old  man. 

In  this  camp  there's  a  man  that's  got  a  history  back  of  him  that's 
sure  scary.  He's  wearin'  several  notches  on  his  gun  an'  has  this  little 
burg  buffaloed.  This  gentleman's  big  all  ways.  He  stands  six  feet 
four  an'  he'll  weigh  two  hundred  an'  fifty  easy.  As  for  looks,  his 
features  is  wolfish  an'  his  brain  cavity  wouldn't  make  a  drinkin'  cup 
for  a  canary  bird.  Knowin'  he's  got  everybody  bluffed,  his  feelin's  is 
mighty  easy  hurt,  an'  most  of  the  folks  keep  him  soothed  by  buyin' 
drinks  for  him.  One  day  a  stranger  forgets  to  buy  him  a  drink,  an' 
the  big  man  bends  a  gun  over  his  head. 

There's  a  reformed  preacher  in  this  town,  runnin'  a  stud  poker 
game.  This  feller  is  Bible-wise  and  hangs  the  name  "Goliar"  on  the 
big  man,  but  when  he  calls  him  that  to  his  face  the  giant  gets  wolfy. 
Misunderstandin'  the  name,  he  thinks  the  stud  dealer's  callin'  him  a 
liar.  The  gambler,  bein'  a  quick  thinker,  is  mighty  fast  squarin'  it  up 
an'  tells  him  the  Bible  story,  barrin'  the  finish,  but  whisperin'  to  me 
on  the  side,  says  he  wishes  David  would  drop  in. 

Goliar  has  things  his  own  way  all  winter,  when  Christmas  comes 
along.  There's  fellers  from  line  camps  an'  all  the  cow  and  hoss  ranches 
in  the  country  rides  in  to  celebrate.  Most  of  'em  knowin'  Goliar 's  back 
record  an'  lookin'  for  pleasure,  not  trouble,  are  careful  about  startin' 
arguments.  They're  all  gamblin'  an'  buyin'  drinks.  Nobody's  barred, 
so  its  pretty  soft  for  the  big  feller.  The  whisky  they're  sellin'  ain't  a 
peaceful  fluid  at  the  best,  an'  with  his  hide  full  of  fightin'  booze,  he's 
touchy  as  a  teased  snake.  He  makes  a  tenderfoot  or  two  dance,  but 
he  can't  get  no  excuse  to  make  no  killin's. 

Among  these  range  people  there's  a  lonesome  sheepherder  an'  his 
dog.  He's  an  undersized  proposition,  takes  plenty  of  whisky  but  says 
no  thin'.  He  loves  music  an'  does  his  entertainin'  with  a  mouth  harp, 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


but  most  of  the  time  he's  sleepin'  off  in  a  corner  with  the  best  friend 
he's  got  layin'  at  his  feet. 

These  people  are  all  mighty  enthusiastic  celebratin'  this  saintly 
day,  an'  of  course  there's  several  fights  pulled,  but  none  of  'em's  fin- 
ished with  worse  than  a  black  eye  or  broken  nose.  One  gentleman,  a 
gun  packer,  reaches  for  his  weepon  once,  but  Goliar's  standin'  close  to 
his  meat.  He  gets  his  own  barker  first  an'  combs  this  puncher's  hair. 
Of  course  this  finishes  the  fight  with  the  spillin'  of  some  blood,  but 
there's  no  powder  burnt. 

'Long  about  noon  this  little  shepherd  dozes  off  into  a  nap  over  in 
a  corner.  All  this  drunken  hollerin'  an'  talkin'  don't  disturb  his 
slumbers,  but  it  seems  to  work  on  his  dog's  nerves,  an'  when  the  collie 
can't  stand  it  no  longer,  he  slips  out,  lookin'  for  some  of  his  own  kind 
that's  sober.  He's  soon  gettin'  along  fine  with  a  bunch  of  his  species, 
an'  is  sure  enjoyin'  himself  when  Goliar,  who's  roamin'  from  one  joint 
to  another,  sets  eyes  on  him.  It's  pickin's  for  this  low-minded  giant, 
an'  it  ain't  long  before  he's  got  this  poor  dog  turned  loose  with  a  can 
hangin'  to  him. 


The  Shepherd  HurU  »  Boulder  at  "Gol!»r." 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  7 

The  first  charge  the  collie  makes  is  in  among  the  hosses  that's  tied 
to  the  rack,  leavin'  nothin'  much  on  the  pole  but  broken  bridle  reins 
an'  hackamore  ropes,  an'  quite  a  few  of  the  celebrators  are  afoot.  Then 
Mr.  Dog  starts  for  his  friend  an'  partner,  an'  when  he  tears  into  this 
saloon,  the  noise  he's  makin'  wakens  the  little  shepherd.  The  dog 
winds  up  whinin'  on  his  master's  knee. 

This  shepherd's  face,  that  has  always  been  smilin'  an'  happy,  looks 
mighty  war-like  now,  an'  it  wouldn't  be  healthy  for  the  canner  to  be 
close  to  him.  Seems  like  he's  sober  in  a  minute.  While  he's  untyin' 
the  can  from  his  dog,  the  owner  of  this  booze  joint,  who's  a  dog  lover 
himself,  steps  over  an'  slippin'  a  forty-five  into  the  sheepherder's  hand, 
whispers:  "That's  Goliar 's  work;  go  get  him,  Shep." 

But  the  sheepherder,  who's  cryin'  now,  shakes  his  head,  an'  re- 
fuses the  weepon,  sayin '  he  don 't  need  no  gun  to  clean  up  that  big  louse. 
Then  he  leaves  without  even  askin'  for  a  drink,  his  dog  slinkin'  close 
to  his  heels.  He's  quite  a  way  up  the  street  when  Goliar  spies  him  an' 
hollers:  "Go  'round  'em,  Shep!  Have  you  got  all  the  black  ones?" 
Pullin'  his  gun,  the  giant  starts  liftin'  the  dirt  around  the  shepherd's 
feet. 

But  the  herder  ain't  gun-shy  an'  don't  even  side-step  till  one  of 
the  bullets  graze  the  dog,  who  whines  an'  crowds  his  master's  legs. 
Whirlin'  'round,  the  gentle  shepherd  reaches  down,  picks  up  a  good- 
sized  boulder  an'  hurls  it  at  Goliar,  catchin'  him  on  the  point  of  the 
chin.  Goliar  straightens  up  an'  falls  his  length,  an'  before  he  can 
recover  the  herder  has  tore  the  gun  loose  from  the  giant's  clutches  and 
is  workin'  him  over  with  the  barrel. 

Some  one  wants  to  stop  him,  but  the  same  feller  that  offers  him  the 
gun  tells  the  crowd  to  stand  back  an'  let  Shep  finish.  The  stud  dealer, 
who's  watched  the  play  from  the  start,  says:  "Goliar  got  his — that's 
sure  enough  David.  The  same  as  cards,  history  repeats — I'd  Ve  played 
Goliar  with  a  copper." 

This  Goliar  is  gathered  up  an'  sent  by  the  next  stage  to  the  hospital 
where  he's  nursed  back  to  life.  His  nose  is  broke;  the  same  with  his 
right  jaw,  an'  one  of  his  ears  has  to  be  sewed  on. 

I  ain't  seen  Goliar  for  years,  but  the  last  time  I  met  him  he's 
wearin'  scars  that's  a  map  of  the  battle  he  had  with  David. 


Highwood  Hank  Quits 

WHEN  I  first  knowed  Highwood  Hank  he's  a  cowpuncher  and  is 
pretty  handy  among  broncs,  says  Rawhide.  In  them  days  he's 
ridin'  for  the  P,  and  anybody  that  savvies  that  iron  knows  they 
never  owned  a  boss  that  wasn't  a  snake.    A  man  had  to  be  a  rider  to 
work  for  'em.     If  a  hoss  thief  found  a  P  boss  in  his  bunch  at  daybreak, 
it 's  a  cinch  he  'd  turn  him  loose.    P  bosses  was  notorious. 

Kid  Russell  tells  me  he  rode  one  summer  for  Ben  Phillips,  who 
owned  that  brand.  He  claimed  be  didn't  take  on  no  flesh  that  year. 
When  he  quit  his  fingernails  was  all  wore  off  an'  there  wasn't  a  hoss 
in  bis  string  that  had  any  mane  from  bis  ears  to  his  withers.  There 
was  spur  tracks  all  over  his  saddle.  He  couldn't  ever  eat  supper  think- 
in'  of  the  hoss  he  bad  to  fork  the  next  mornin',  and  he  never  made 
no  try  at  breakfast.  His  hands  is  so  shaky  all  that  spring  that  he  has 
to  get  a  friend  to  roll  his  cigarettes,  an'  if  he'd  worked  a  whole  season 
his  fingers  would  be  wore  down  to  the  knuckles.  As  it  is  it  takes  a  solid 
year  to  get  the  crooks  out  of  his  hands  from  bavin'  'em  clamped  'round 
the  saddle  horn. 

As  I  said  before,  Hank's  a  rider,  but  like  all  others,  old  Daddy 
Time  has  hung  it  on  him.  It  seems  these  days  like  his  backbone  has 
growed  together  in  places  an'  it  don't  take  to  the  swing  of  a  pitchin' 
bronc.  Hank's  married  now,  and  he's  a  granddad.  He  still  owns  a  ranch 
and  rides,  but  they  ain't  the  long  circles  he  used  to  make. 

A  couple  of  years  ago  Hank  runs  in  a  bunch  of  broncos.  They're 
rollin'  fat  an'  pretty  snuffy.  He  drops  his  rope  on  to  one,  an'  the 
the  minute  his  loop  tightens,  Mr.  Bronc  swings  'round,  comin '  at  Hank 
with  his  ears  up,  wbistlin'  like  a  bull  elk.  In  the  old  days  this  would 
a-been  music  to  Hank 's  ears.  It  takes  him  back  to  the  P  string. 

Mrs.  Hank's  lookin'  through  the  corral  fence  an'  begs  Hubby  not 
to  crawl  this  one.  He  tells  her  not  to  worry. 

"All  you  got  to  do  it  sit  back  an'  watch  me  scratch  bis  shoulders." 
he  says.  "You  won't  have  to  pay  no  railroad  fare  to  Miles  City  to  see 
bronc  ridin,"  he  tells  her.  "This  is  goin'  to  be  home  talent." 

"He'll  throw  you,"  says  she. 

"Yes  he  will,"  says  Hank,  as  he  cinches  his  hull  on. 

This  bronc 's  got  bis  near  ear  dropped  down  an'  about  half  of  bis 
eye  shows  white.  He's  humped  till  you  could  throw  a  dog  under  the 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


saddle  skirts  behind,  Hank's  whistlin'  "Turkey  in  the  Straw"  to 
keep  his  sand  up,  an'  his  wife  notices  there's  a  tremble  in  his  hand  as 
he  reaches  for  the  horn. 

The  minute  the  bronc  feels  weight  on  the  near  stirrup  he  starts 


for  the  clouds,  an'  the  second  time  he  comes  down  Hank  ain't  with  him. 
He's  sittin'  on  the  ground  with  two  hands  full  of  corral  dust. 

"I  told  you  so,"  says  Wifie. 

"Yes  you  did,"  says  Hank.  "You're  a  fine  partner,  sittin'  there 
like  you're  deaf  and  dumb.  Any  time  I  ever  rode  a  bronc  before  there's 
always  been  somebody  around  to  yell:  'Stay  with  him — hang  an' 


10  RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 

rattle.'  You  didn't  give  me  any  encouragement.   Just  lookin'  at  you 
scared  me  loose." 

"All  right,"  says  Mrs.  Hank,  "I'll  try  to  do  better  next  time." 

But  the  next  one  is  a  shorter  ride  than  the  first.  His  better  half 
yells:  "Stay  with  him,"  but  it's  just  as  Hank  hits  the  ground. 

"I  hollered  that  time,"  says  she. 

"Yes  you  did,"  says  Hank.    "Why    didn't    you    wait    till   New 
Years?" 

Hank  hates  to  do  it,  but  he  has  to  own  up  that  his  bronc  ridin'  days 
is  over. 


Tommy  Simpson's  Cow 

IN  the  old  days  the  sight  of  a  cow  follered  by  more  than  one  calf  is 
apt  to  cause  comment  among  cowpeople,  says  Rawhide.     But  times 
have  changed  an'  it  looks  like  new  improvements  has  come  in  the 
stock  business  along  with  dry  farmin'  an'  prohibition.     Not  all  these 
modern  ideas  is  hatched  up  on  this  side  of  the  water,  though.     Tommy 
Simpson's  prize  cow  proves  that. 


Tommy  Simpson's  Cow. 

The  other  day  I'm  ridin'  on  Box  Elder  creek,  when  I'm  surprised 
to  see  a  cow  that's  got  five  calves  follerin'  her,  all  wearin'  Tommy 
Simpson's  brand.  Tommy's  an  old-timer  in  the  cattle  business,  so  I 
figger  he'll  have  some  interestin'  explanation  to  make  of  this  miracle. 
I'm  still  ponderin'  over  it  when  I  ride  into  the  town  of  Fife,  which 
Tommy  has  named  after  the  village  in  Scotland  that  he's  run  out  of 
as  a  youth  for  poachin'.  Enterin'  the  store  there,  who  do  I  see  but  the 
owner  of  the  cow  an'  five  calves.  I  presently  remark  that's  sure  some 
cow  of  his. 

Tommy,  with  both  jowls  loaded  with  Climax,  as  usual,  is  speechless, 
until  he  opens  the  stove  door  an'  nearly  puts  the  fire  out.  Then,  gettin' 
his  breath,  he  explains  that  the  cow  has  been  sent  to  him  from  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland  by  his  grandfather.  The  animal,  he  says,  comes 
to  this  country  in  charge  of  a  cousin  of  Tommy. 


12 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


It  appears  that  Tommy's  cousin,  with  thrift  that's  characteristic 
of  the  family,  drives  a  sharp  bargain  with  the  captain  of  the  sailin' 
ship  in  which  he  engages  passage  from  Strachlachan,  which  is  not  far 
from  Ballochantry,  somewhere  north  of  the  Firth  of  Gallway.  Tommy's 
cousin  agrees  to  furnish  milk  and  cream  to  the  ship's  crew  an' 
twenty-three  passengers  if  they'll  let  him  an'  the  cow  travel  on  a  pass. 
This  suits  the  captain.  On  the  way  over  the  cow  is  milked  evenin'  an' 
mornin'  by  Tommy's  cousin  an'  the  members  of  the  larboard  watch. 
How  Tommy's  cousin  an'  the  cow  beat  their  way  from  New  York  to 
Montana,  I  never  hear. 

Accordin'  to  Tommy,  cows  of  this  breed  ain't  uncommon  in  the 
Scotch  Highlands.  They're  built  somewhat  along  the  lines  of  the  lady 
pig.  Tommy  says  it's  an  interestin'  sight,  after  the  cow  gets  to  his 
ranch,  for  the  neighbors  to  watch  Tommy  and  several  hired  men  milk 
the  Scotch  cow.  The  milk  from  the  off  side  supplies  the  Fife  creamery 
with  butter  fat,  while  that  from  the  near  side  of  the  cow  nourishes  her 
half-dozen  calves. 

Tommy  tells  me  that  in  Scotland,  where  these  cows  eat  the  nutri- 
tious heather,  the  center  bag  gives  pure  cream;  the  rear  one,  buttermilk, 
an'  the  forward  one  skim  milk,  so  they  don't  need  no  separator. 


Time. 


How  Pat  Discovered  the  Geyser 

COLUMBUS  discovers  America.      A  feller  called  Ponce  de  Leon 
claims  lie  discovered  Florida.     Jim  Bridger  finds  the  Great  Salt 
Lake,  but  it's  Pat  Geyser,  as  he's  knowed  by  old   timers,    that 
locates  the  geyser  on  Geyser  creek,  near  the  town  that  gets  its  name 
from  it.     Pat  Geyser  ain't  this  gent's  right  name,  but  I  ain't  tippin' 
nobody's  hand,  observes  Rawhide. 

Pat  tells  that  one  day  in  the  early  '80s  he's  out  lookin'  for  cows, 
an'  the  chances  are  good  that  any  he  takes  an  interest  in  belong  to 
somebody  else.  Pat's  good  hearted  an'  he  hates  to  see  calves  wanderin' 
around  wearin'  no  brand.  They  look  so  homeless  that  he's  always 
willin'  to  stake  'em  to  a  brand  with  his  own  iron. 

Pat's  hoss  is  dry  when  he  rides  on  to  this  creek  an'  notices  a  muddy 
pool,  but  as  there  ain't  no  geysers  in  Ireland,  Pat  don't  savvy,  he  says. 
His  hoss  ain't  no  more'n  dropped  his  head  to  drink  than  this  here  geyser 
busts  loose,  takin'  Pat  an'  the  hoss  along  with  it.  There's  steam,  sody 
water  an'  a  mixture  of  all  the  health  resorts  in  this  stew  that's  boiled 
over,  an'  Pat  claims  the  force  of  it  lifts  his  hoss  from  his  iron  shoes. 

Pat  tells  that  he  don 't  know  how  far  skyward  he  goes,  but  him  an ' 
the  hoss  passes  an  eagle  on  the  way  back. 

Now  I'm  goin'  to  say  here  that  I've  seen  this  geyser  myself,  many 
a  time,  but  me  nor  no  one  else,  barrin'  Pat,  ever  see  it  do  anything  more 
vicious  than  a  keg  of  sour  dough  would.  It  just  kind  of  bubbles  once 
in  a  while. 

Havin'  heard  of  the  Yallerstone  Park,  an'  thinkin'  he's  found 
another  one,  Pat  starts  a  few  days  after  buildin'  a  health  resort,  follerin' 
the  plans  of  the  Mammoth  hotel,  but  bein'  built  of  cottonwood  logs, 
dry  weather  shrinks  her  a  lot.  I  remember  bein'  there  once,  and  after 
a  few  drinks  of  Pat  Geyser's  favor-ite,  the  measurements  swells  till 
this  shack  looks  like  the  Brown  Palace  in  Denver. 

For  the  first  few  years  Pat  don't  draw  a  strong  trade,  as  humans 
are  scatterin'  and  the  only  sickness  in  the  country  is  scab,  the  sheepmen 
havin'  dippin'  tanks  for  that.  But  in  time  it  grows  into  quite  a  resort 
and  rest  cure  for  shepherds.  These  herders  don't  take  much  to  the 
geyser  water,  barrin'  the  little  Pat  throws  in  as  a  "chaser." 

Tenderfeet  stoppin'  with  Pat  would  often  ask:  "When  does  this 
geyser  turn  loose?" 


14 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


^-^_— •< 


Pat 's  always  there  with  a 
comeback:  "How  long  will 
you  be  here?" 

"Leavin'  tomorrer,"  the 
tenderfoot  might  say. 

"You'll  just  miss  it  by  a 
day."  Pat  had  it  fixed  so 
the  visitor  was  always  shy  a 
day  or  two  of  seein'  it. 

None  of  the  regular  pa- 
trons of  the  resort  ever  see 
anything  that  ain't  brought 
on  by  liquor,  but  by  usin' 
enough  of  the  rest  cure  medicine  the  bartender  passed  out  there,  a  man 
could  see  northern  lights  at  noon  time,  rainbows  at  night  an'  total 
eclipses  of  the  sun  any  time — to  say  nothin'  of  geysers  of  all  sizes. 

Pat  was  strong  for  the  social  end  of  life,  an'  he  used  to  pull  card 
parties  for  freighters  to  break  the  monotony  of  their  trips.    At  these 


The  Oeyaer  Rosin  I.noie 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


IS 


no  skinner  was  allowed  to  bet  any  more  than  he  had.  Some  knockers 
said  Pat  knew  both  sides  of  the  cards,  but  if  he  ever  dealt  off  the  bottom 
it's  when  nobody's  lookin'. 

One  afternoon  when  Pat's  asleep  the  railroad  sneaks  in  an'  moves 
the  town.  The  minute  Pat  opens  his  eyes  he's  onto  their  hole  card,  and 
gettin'  the  wheel  barrow,  he  moves  his  hotel  over  to  the  new  location 
an'  has  his  dinin'  room  open  for  supper. 

When  automobiles  get  popular,  Pat,  who's  always  progressive  an' 
up-to-date,  buys  one.  The  day  after  it's  delivered,  Pat  asks  a  friend 
to  ride  over  to  Stanford  with  him.  They  started,  an'  after  passin'  what 
looks  like  Stanford  as  far  as  he  could  tell  at  the  80-mile  gait  they're 
goin',  an'  seein'  they're  nearin'  Judith  Gap,  the  friends  asks:  "What's 
your  hurry,  Patf  " 

"I'm  in  no  hurry,"  Pat  yelled,  "but  I'm  damned  if  I  know  how  to 
stop  the  thing.  We'll  have  to  let  it  run  down." 

The  car  bein'  young,  it  has  the  ways  of  a  bronc,  an'  Pat  almost  died 
at  the  wheel  with  his  hands  numb  an'  locked  in  the  spokes.  The  friend 
gives  him  nourishment  that  keeps  life  in  him,  an'  18  hours  later  they 
wind  up  on  Greybull  river  in  Wyoming. 


Move..    HU   Hotel. 


How  Louse  Creek  Was  Named 

AIN'T  you  ever  heard  how  Louse  Creek  got  its  name?  inquires  Raw- 
hide.   Well,  I  ain  't  no  historian,  but  I  happen  to  savvy  this  incid- 
ent.   The  feller  that  christens  it  ain't  like  a  lot  of  old  timers  that 
consider  it  an  honor  to  have  streams  an'  towns  named  after  'em.      His 
first  name's  Pete,  and  he  still  lives  in  the  Judith,  but  I  ain't  goin'  no 
further  exceptin'  to  say  he's  a  large,  dark-complected  feller,  he's 
mighty  friendly  with  Pat  O'Hara  and  his  hangout  is  the  town  of 
Geyser. 

When  I  knowed  him  first  he's  a  cowpuncher.  From  looks  you'd 
say  he  didn't  have  no  thin'  under  his  hat  but  hair,  but  what  he  knows 
about  cows  is  a  gift.  Bight  now  he's  got  a  nice  little  bunch  rangin'  in 
the  foothills.  There's  a  lot  of  talk  about  the  way  he  gets  his  start — 
you  can  believe  it  or  not,  suit  yourself — but  I  think  it's  his  winnin' 
way  among  cows.  He  could  come  damn  near  talkin'  a  cow  out  of  her 
calf.  Some  say  they've  seen  calves  follerin'  his  saddle  boss  across  the 
prairie.  One  old  cowman  says  he's  seen  that,  alright,  but  lookin' 
through  glasses,  there's  a  rope  between  the  calf  and  Pete's  saddle  horn. 


Fete  Had  •  Winning  Way  With  Cattle 


But  goin'  back  to  the  namin'  of  Louse  Creek,  it's  one  spring  round- 
up, back  in  the  early  '80s.  We're  out  on  circle,  an'  me  an'  Pete's  ridin' 
together.  Mine's  a  center-fire  saddle,  and  I  drop  back  to  straighten 
the  blanket  an'  set  it.  I  ain't  but  a  few  minutes  behind  him,  but  the 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


17 


next  I  see  of  Pete  is  on  the  bank  of  this  creek,  which  didn't  have  no 
name  then.  He's  off  his  hoss  an'  has  stripped  his  shirt  off.  With 
one  boulder  on  the  ground  an'  another  about  the  same  size  in  his  hand, 
he's  poundin'  the  seams  of  the  shirt.  He's  so  busy  he  don't  hear  me 
when  I  ride  up,  and  he's  cussin'  and  swearin'  to  himself.  I  hear  him 
mutter,  "I'm  damned  if  this  don't  get  some  of  the  big  ones!" 

Well,  from  this  day  on,  this  stream  is  known  as  Louse  Creek. 


-!    I'll  Get  the  Bit  OHM  Anyway! 


Some  Liars  of  the  Old  West 

S  PEA  KIN'  of  liars,  says  Rawhide,  the  old  west  could  put  in  its  claim 
for  more  of  'em  than  any  other  land  under  the  sun.     The  moun- 
tains and  plains  seemed  to  stimulate  man's  imagination.    A  man 
in  the  states  might  have  been  a  liar  in  a  small  way,  but  when  he  comes 
west  he  soon  takes  lessons  from  the  prairies,  where  ranges  a  hundred 
miles  away  seem  within  touchin'  distance,    streams    run   uphill    and 
nature  appears  to  lie  some  herself. 

These  men  weren't  vicious  liars.  It  was  love  of  romance,  lack  of 
reading  matter  and  the  wish  to  be  entertainin'  that  makes  'em  stretch 
facts  and  invent  yarns.  Jack  McGowan,  a  well  known  old  timer  now 
livin'  in  Great  Falls,  tells  of  a  man  known  as  Lyin'  Jack,  who  was 
famous  from  Mexico  to  the  Arctic. 

,McGowa[n  says  one  of  Jack's  favorite  tales  is  of  an  elk  he  once 
killed  that  measured  15  feet  spread  between  the  antlers.  He  used  to 
tell  that  he  kept  these  horns  in  the  loft  of  his  cabin. 

"One  time  I  hadn't  seen  Jack  for  years,"  said  McGowan,  "when 
he  shows  up  in  Benton.  The  crowd's  all  glad  to  see  Jack,  an'  after  a 
round  or  two  of  drinks,  asks  him  to  tell  them  a  yarn. 

"  'No,  boys,'  says  Jack,  'I'm  through.  For  years  I've  been  tellin' 
these  lies — told  'em  so  often  I  got  to  believin'  'em  myself.  That  story 
of  mine  about  the  elk  with  the  15-foot  horns  is  what  cured  me.  I  told 
about  that  elk  so  often  that  I  knowed  the  place  I  killed  it.  One 
night  I  lit  a  candle  and  crawled  up  in  the  loft  to  view  the  horns—- 
an' I'm  damned  if  they  was  there.'  " 


Once  up  in  Yogo,  Bill  Cameron  pointed  out  Old  Man  Babcock  an' 
another  old-timer,  Patrick,  sayin',  "there's  three  of  the  biggest  liars 
in  the  world." 

"Who's  the  third!"  inquired  a  bystander. 

"Patrick's  one  an'  old  Bab's  the  other  two,"  says  Cameron. 

This  Babcock  one  night  is  telling  about  getting  jumped  by  50 
hostile  Sioux,  a  war  party,  that's  giving  him  a  close  run.  The  bullets 
an'  arrows  are  tearin'  the  dirt  all  around,  when  he  hits  the  mouth  of 
a  deep  canyon.  He  thinks  he's  safe,  but  after  ridin'  up  it  a  way,  dis- 
covers it's  a  box  gulch,  with  walls  straight  up  from  600  to  1,000  feet. 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  19 

His  only  get-away's  where  he  come  in  an'  the  Indians  are  already  whip- 
pin'  their  ponies  into  it. 

Bight  here  old  Bab  rares  back  in  his  chair,  closes  his  eyes  an '  starts 
fondlin'  his  whiskers.  This  seems  to  be  the  end  of  the  story,  when 
one  of  the  listeners  asks: 

"What  happened  then?" 

Old  Bab,  with  his  eyes  still  closed,  takin'  a  fresh  chew,  whispered: 
"They  killed  me,  be  God!" 

The  upper  Missouri  river  steamboats,  they  used  to  say,  would  run 
on  a  light  dew,  an'  certainly  they  used  to  get  by  where  there  was  mighty 
little  water.  X.  Beidler  an'  his  friend,  Major  Reed,  are  traveling  by 
boat  to  Fort  Benton.  One  night  they  drink  more  than  they  should. 
X.  is  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the  cries  of  Reed.  On  entering  his 
stateroom,  X.  finds  Reed  begging  for  water,  as  he's  dying  of  thirst. 

X.  steps  to  the  bedside,  and  takin'  his  friend's  hand,  says:  "I'm 
sorry,  Major,  I  can't  do  anything  for  you.  That  damned  pilot  got 
drunk,  too,  last  night,  and  we're  eight  miles  up  a  dry  coulee!" 


"Some  say  rattlers  ain't  pizen,"  said  Buckskin  Williams,  an  old 
freighter,  "but  I  know  different.  I'm  pullin'  out  of  Milk  river  one 
day  with  14,  when  I  notice  my  line  hoss  swing  out  an'  every  hoss  on 
the  near  side  crowds  the  chain.  My  near  wheel  hoss,  that  I'm  ridin', 
rares  up  an'  straddles  the  tongue.  It's  then  I  see  what  the  trouble 
is — a  big  rattler  has  struck,  misses  my  hoss  an'  hits  the  tongue.  The 
tongue  starts  to  swell  up.  I  have  to  chop  it  off  to  save  the  wagon,  an' 
I'm  damn  quick  doin'  it,  too!" 

***** 

"Cap"  Nelse,  a  well  known  old  timer  around  Benton  in  the  early 
days,  tells  of  coming  south  from  Edmonton  with  a  string  of  half- 
breed  carts.  They  were  traveling  through  big  herds  of  buffalo.  It 
was  spring  and  there  were  many  calves.  They  had  no  trouble  with  the 
full-grown  buffalo,  Cap  said,  but  were  forced  to  stop  often  to  take 
the  calves  from  between  the  spokes  of  the  cart-wheels! 

***** 

A  traveling  man  in  White  Sulphur  Springs  makes  a  bet  of  drinks 
for  the  town  with  Coates,  a  saloon  keeper,  that  Coates  can 't  find  a  man 
that  will  hold  up  his  hand  and  take  his  oath  that  he  has  seen  100,000 
buffalo  at  one  sight.  When  the  bet's  decided,  it's  agreed  to  ring  the 
triangle  at  the  hotel,  which  will  call  the  town  to  their  drinks. 

Many  old-timers  said  they  had  seen  that  many  buffalo,  but  refused 


They  Killed  Me! 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  21 

to  swear  to  it,  and  it  looked  like  Coates  would  lose  his  bet  until  Milt 
Crowthers  showed  up.  Then  a  smile  of  confidence  spread  over  Coates' 
face,  as  he  introduces  Crowthers  to  the  drummer. 

"Mr.  Crowthers,"  said  the  traveling  man,  "how  many  antelope 
have  you  seen  at  one  time?" 

Crowthers  straightens  up  and  looks  wise,  like  he's  turning  back 
over  the  pages  of  the  past.  "Two  hundred  thousand,"  says  he. 

"How  many  elk?"  asks  the  traveling  man. 
"Somethin'  over  a  million,"  replies  Crowthers. 

"Mr.  Crowthers,  how  may  buffalo  will  you  hold  up  your  hand 
and  swear  you  have  seen  at  one  sight?" 

Crowthers  holds  up  his  hand.  "As  near  as  I  can  figure,"  says 
he,  ' '  about  three  million  billion. ' ' 

This  is  where  Coates  starts  for  the  triangle,  but  the  traveling 
man  halts  him,  saying,  "Where  were  you  when  you  saw  these  buffalo, 
Mr.  Crowthers?"  , 

"I  was  a  boy  travelin'  with  a  wagon  train,"  replies  Crowthers. 
' '  We  was  south  of  the  Platte  when  we  was  forced  to  corral  our  wagons 
to  keep  our  stock  from  bein'  stampeded  by  buffalo.  For  five  days  an' 
nights  50  men  kep'  their  guns  hot  killin'  buffalo  to  keep  'em  off  the 
wagons.  The  sixth  day  the  herd  spread,  givin'  us  time  to  yoke  up  an' 
cross  the  Platte,  an'  it's  a  damn  good  thing  we  did." 

"Why?"  asks  the  traveling  man. 

"Well,"  says  Crowthers,  "we  no  more  than  hit  the  high  country 
north  of  the  Platte,  than  lookin'  back,  here  comes  the  main  herd!" 


Mormon  Zack,  Fighter 

I  SEE  Mormon  Zack's  in  the  hospital  with  a  bad  front  foot.     This 
bein'  crippled  ain't  nothin'  strange  for  the  Mormon,  said  Rawhide 
Rawlins,  as  he  pulled  the  "makin's"  out  of  his  coat  pocket   and 
started  rollin'  one. 

If  I  knowed  the  story  of  every  scar  he's  got  I  could  hand  the 
people  a  history  that  would  make  a  lot  of  the  scraps  the  kaiser 
lost  look  like  a  prayer  meetin'.  My  knowledge  of  history's  a  little 
hazy,  but  knowin'  Zack  came  from  Norway  and  judgin'  from  his 
actions,  he's  a  come-back  of  some  of  them  old  fightin'  Norsemen.  You 
might  lick  him,  but  you  can't  keep  him  licked  and  he  fights  as  well 
underneath  as  he  does  on  top. 

The  first  time  I  see  Zack  I'm  a  kid,  helpin'  throw  up  a  log  shack 
on  the  Judith  river.  There's  a  feller  rides  up  with  an  Injun  boss  under 
him.  He's  sittin'  in  an  old-fashioned  low-horn  saddle  with  "dog- 
house" stirrups.  In  dress  he's  wearin'  the  garments  of  a  breed — moc- 
casins and  beaded  buckskin  leggin's  that  come  to  the  knees.  In  his 
ca'tridge  belt  is  a  skinnin'  knife  an'  across  the  front  of  him  lays  a 
Winchester  in  a  fringed  an'  beaded  skin  gun  cover.  One  of  the  men 
that's  with  me  tells  me  that's  Mormon  Zack. 

That'll  soon  be  40  years  ago.  At  that  time  there's  still  a  lot  of 
Injun  trade  in  the  country,  an'  that's  the  Mormon's  business.  The 
first  time  I  knowed  of  Zack  gettin'  warlike  is  a  little  while  after  this  at 
Reed's  Fort,  a  tradin'  post  near  where  Lewistown  stands  today.  It's 
run  by  Reed  and  Bowles. 

There's  about  200  lodges  of  Piegans  come  to  the  post  for  trade. 
Bowles  don't  happen  to  be  there,  as  he's  gone  to  Ben  ton  to  get  whisky. 
While  he's  off  gettin'  this  wet  goods,  Zack  an'  his  partner  comes  along 
and  make  a  trade,  an'  when  Bowles  arrives  there  ain't  as  much  as  a 
skunk  skin  left  among  them  Piegans.  They  're  traded  down  to  a  breech- 
clout. 

This  don't  make  Bowles  pleasant  to  get  along  with  an'  he  starts 
fillin'  up  on  this  trade  whisky.  This  is  the  booze  that  made  the  jack- 
rabbit  spit  in  a  wolf's  eye. 

As  I  said  before,  Bowles  fills  up  an'  starts  tellin'  Zack  how  much 
he  thinks  of  him,  an'  the  talk  Zack  comes  back  with  ain't  very  genteel. 
Zack's  standin'  pretty  close,  for  all  the  time  they're  talkin'  he's  on  to 
Bowies'  hole-card.  He  knows  this  hog-leg  that's  hangin'  on  Bowies' 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  23 

hip  ain't  no  watch-charm,  so  to  avoid  any  misunderstanding,  Zack 
hands  Bowles  one  on  the  chin,  knockin'  him  from  under  his  hat.  He's 
near  bein'  too  late,  for  Bowles  has  already  reached  for  his  barker  an' 
just  when  Zack's  reachin'  his  jaw  she  speaks  out  loud,  the  ball  nearly 
tearin'  Zack's  hind  leg  off  at  the  hip. 

Bowles  don't  come  to  till  next  day,  an'  then  he  wants  to  know 
which  hoss  kicked  him.  Zack 's  worse  off  as  there  ain  't  no  doctor  nearer 
than  Ben  ton.  Of  course,  there's  a  medicine  man  in  the  Piegan  camp, 
but  Zack  ain't  Injun  enough  to  believe  that  this  red  doctor  can  beat 
a  tom-tom  an'  sing  his  leg  together,  so  he  forks  a  hoss  an'  pulls  for  the 
steamboat  town.  This  little  incident  don't  seem  to  take  none  of  the 
fight  out  of  Zack,  an'  he  wins  an'  loses  a  few  battles  down  there  while 
he's  healin'  up. 

It's  a  few  years  later  Zack  comes  near  crossin'  the  range  when 
he  mixes  with  a  fighter  in  Benton.  The  battle's  Zack's  from  the  start 
till  the  other  fellow  cheats  by  drawin'  a  knife,  an'  slippin'  it  into 
Zack's  flank  he  walks  clean  'round  him,  leavin'  Zack  with  no  thin' 
holdin  him  up  but  his  backbone.  His  friends  help  him  gather  up  the 
loose  ends,  and  gettin'  a  doctor  with  a  sackin'  needle,  he's  soon  patched 
up  again. 

Another  time  Zack  fights  a  feller  all  day.  Of  course  they  stop  for 
drinks  an'  feed.  There  really  ain't  no  hard  feelins';  they're  just  tryin' 
to  find  out  which  is  the  best  man.  They'd  a-been  fightin'  yet  but  their 
eyes  swelled  shut  at  last  an'  they  couldn't  find  one  another. 

There  was  one  town  Zack  was  doubtful  of,  an'  that  was  Bull  Hook. 
In  them  days  this  burg  held  the  pennant  for  fighters. 

Zack  had  been  cookin'  on  the  Teton  roundup,  an'  when  they  break 
up  that  fall  he  jumps  a  train  headed  east.  He's  got  quite  a  bankroll 
and  a  friend  stakes  him  to  a  quart  that  ain't  grape  juice.  He's  figurin' 
on  winterin'  in  some  of  the  towns  along  the  road,  so  when  the  train 
stops  at  this  town  of  Bull  Hook,  or  Havre  as  they  call  it  now,  he  steps 
off  to  get  the  air  an'  size  up  the  citizens. 

As  I  was  sayin',  this  town  in  the  old  days  was  the  home  of  most 
of  the  fighters  of  the  northwest.  Zack  picks  out  the  biggest,  hardest 
one  in  sight,  an'  walkin'  up  friendly  like,  hands  him  one  in  the  jaw  with 
every  pound  he's  got.  With  this  the  ball  opens,  but  it  don't  last  long, 
an '  Zack 's  hit  him  everywhere  when  the  big  feller  hollers  ' '  enough. ' ' 

Then  the  stranger  wants  to  know  what  it's  all  about  and  asks  Zack 
to  introduce  himself  an'  explain,  just  out  of  curiosity,  what's  his  reason 
for  tearin'  into  him.  Zack  tells  him  there's  no  hard  feelin's  an'  it  ain't 
no  old  grudge  he's  workin'  off,  but  he  kind  of  figured  on  winterin'  in 


24 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


Bull  Hook,  an'  hearin'  they're  all  fighters  there,  he  thinks  this  is  the 
best  way  of  introducin'  himself. 

"I  picked  the  biggest  one  among  you,"  says  the  Mormon.  "If  I'd 
a'  lose,  I  was  goin'  on  to  Chinook,  but  seein'  I  win,  I'll  winter  with 
you."  An'  he  did. 

Although  Zack's  a  natural  scrapper,  like  many  of  his  kind  he  has 
plenty  of  good  traits,  is  good-hearted,  an'  I  never  knowed  him  to  jump 
on  a  weakling.  It  was  always  a  man  who  claimed  to  be  a  fighter,  too. 
Zack  belonged  to  his  time  an'  it  was  his  kind  and  not  the  reformers 
that  made  Montana.  These  last  came  with  the  tumble  weed. 


Zack  Pick*  Out  the  Biggest,  Rardest-lookln'  Citizen  He  C»n  8w>  and  SwIoEn  on  His  Jaw  With  F.verT  Pound  He'»  Oo». 


Johnny  Sees  the  Big  Show 

I  SEE  where  an  old-time  roundup  cook,  a  friend  of  mine — though  I 
don't  want  you  to  think  his  cookin'  ever  tied  any  friendship  knot 
between  us — crosses  the  big  pond  to  take  a  look  at  the  trenches, 
said  Rawhide  Rawlins. 

Johnny's  as  far  as  I'll  go  with  his  name.  This  range  chef  always 
was  better  talkin'  than  he  was  cookin'  an'  when  I  meet  him  the  other 
day  he  tells  me  that  on  his  trip  over  he  gets  kidney  sores  wearin'  a  life 
preserver,  an'  he's  so  sick  he's  afraid  the  Dutchmen  won't  sink  the 
boat.  One  day  he's  hangin'  with  his  head  over  the  rail.  Most  people 
think  it's  a  sailor's  union  suit  hung  out  to  dry,  but  a  Red  Cross  nurse 
recognizes  it  as  human,  and  puttin'  her  arm  'round  him  in  a  motherly 
way,  says,  "Are  you  sick?" 

"Hell,  no,"  says  Johnny.    "I'm  doin'  this  for  fun." 

"Have  all  the  fun  you  want,"  she  conies  back  at  him.  "These  big 
waves  is  full  of  jokes."  Johnny  tries  to  smile,  but  his  countenance 
resembles  a  good  job  by  the  undertaker. 

When  the  boat  lands  it  takes  four  stewards  to  unload  Johnny. 
The  customs  bull  looks  him  over,  an'  noticin'  a  swellin'  around  his 
middle,  thinks  he's  grabbed  a  smuggler,  but  strippin'  him  finds  he's 
still  wearin'  the  life  preserver. 


Took  Four  Stewards  to  Unload  Johnny 


26  RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 

He  walks  around  Liverpool  till  the  town  quits  rockin';  then  takes 
a  train  to  London,  he  tells  me,  on  one  of  them  little  English  cars  they 
lock  you  in.  Johnny  feels  like  a  steer  goin'  to  Chicago;  the  bull  bars 
is  up.  They  don't  let  him  out  to  feed,  but  this  don't  bother  him  none 
as  his  boat  ride  has  taken  all  ideas  of  eatin'  out  of  his  thoughts. 

In  this  box  with  him  is  a  red-faced  Englishman,  wearin'  a  single 
eyeglass  an'  looking  about  as  intelligent  as  a  Merino  ram  at  the  state 
fair.  He's  lookin'  in  one  place  all  the  time,  an'  after  about  four  hours 
it  gets  on  Johnny's  nerves.  Thinkin'  he'll  start  a  talk,  Johnny  remarks 
on  the  beautiful  scenery  that  might  be  there  if  the  fog  would  lift.  This 
don't  break  the  stare  of  the  beef  eater.  Johnny  tries  him  again: 
"Does  this  train  stop  at  a  line  camp  like  London,  or  does  she  go  right 
through  to  Chinook?"  he  inquires. 

The  Britisher  don't  pay  no  more  attention  to  Johnny  than  if  he 
was  part  of  the  upholsterin '.  Johnny,  thinkin'  maybe  he's  a  dummy, 
tries  sign  talk,  but  he  loses  again. 

By  the  time  he  gets  to  London,  he's  wolf  hungry.  He  drops  into 
a  feed  shop,  an'  seein'  meat  pie  on  the  layout,  tells  the  waiter  he'll 
play  that.  He  takes  one  bite,  an'  findin'  this  pie  cold  as  a  well  digger's 
feet,  he  pushes  back  his  chair.  "I  lose,"  says  he  to  the  waiter,  "an' 
though  I  ain't  no  welcher,  I've  been  cold-decked." 

This  biscuit  slave  asks  what's  his  trouble.  When  Johnny  makes 
him  savvy  he  likes  this  dish  hot,  the  waiter  looks  seasick  at  the  idea 
of  a  hot  meat  pie.  Johnny  afterwards  learns  that  King  Alfred  the 
Great  burnt  his  cakes,  but  liked  his  meat  pie  cold,  an'  what  was  good 
enough  for  Al  a  couple  of  thousand  years  ago  is  all  right  for  an 
Englishman. 

The  next  day  Johnny  takes  in  Westminster  Abbey,  an'  after  lookin' 
'round  at  tombstones  that's  piled  so  plentyful  he's  walkin'  on  'em,  he 
gets  kind  of  hostile  because  he  don't  see  none  of  his  people  represented. 
He  tells  the  guide  his  name,  says  his  ancestors  was  English  and  wants 
to  know  why  his  folks  is  barred. 

The  guide,  bein'  history -wise,  is  there  with  an  answer,  an'  tells 
Johnny  without  stutterin'  that  in  them  days  they  didn't  bury  no  high- 
waymen, but  left  'em  hangin'  in  their  chains,  feed  for  the  ravens. 

Johnny  wanders  through  the  Tower  of  London  next  an'  sees  a  lot 
of  them  old  clothes  that  the  blacksmith  built.  He  notices  one  old  iron 
hat  that's  bigger 'n  all  the  rest  an'  wearin'  more  scars  an'  dents. 

"Who  wears  that  one!"  he  asks  the  guide. 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  27 

' '  Sir  James  Burnham,  a  famous  warrior  of  the  tenth  century, ' '  the 
guide  tells  him. 

Johnny  takes  off  his  hat  an'  bows  like  he's  pullin'  a  silent  prayer. 
"What's  the  cause  of  this  reverence?"  the  guide  inquires. 

"Hush,"  says  Johnny.  "That  iron  lid  belonged  to  a  forefather 
of  an  old  friend  of  mine  of  that  name.  He's  knowed  from  Deadwood 
to  the  Pacific  as  Piano  Jim.  Jim,  like  his  ancestor,  was  warlike.  That 
dented  hardware  hat  has  a  smooth  surface  compared  to  the  war  scars 
on  Piano  Jim's  head.  If  Jim  had  owned  that  lid  he'd  a  win  more 
battles." 

Then  Johnny  leaves  the  beef  eaters'  camp  for  the  land  of  the  frog 
eaters.  He's  as  shy  about  takin'  water  again  as  a  cat,  but  there  ain't 
no  ford.  It's  a  groundhog  case — he's  got  to  take  the  boat. 

This  trip  ain't  so  long,  but  it's  just  as  shaky  as  the  big  creek,  an' 
when  he  lands  the  health  officers  nearly  turn  him  back.  Judgin'  by 
his  looks  he's  a  German  spy  with  a  load  of  yaller  fever  hangin'  on  him, 
but  he  squares  himself  with  a  few  words  of  French  he  learned  on  Big 
Springs  creek  from  Louis  Baptiste.  This  Louis's  one  of  nature's 
noblemen.  He's  got  all  the  refinements  of  a  Sioux  Indian  on  his 
mother's  side,  an'  his  dad's  a  French  whisky  trader.  The  language 
he  uses  is  a  mixture  of  the  same  stew.  These  Frenchmen  know  there's 
some  French  in  what  Johnny's  sayin',  but  from  the  way  he  speaks  it 
they  think  he's  been  gassed  in  the  trenches. 

When  Johnny's  near  enough  the  fightin'  line  to  smell  smoke,  it 
seems  home-like.  It  reminds  him  of  Landusky  on  a  quiet  day.  When 
they  tell  him  of  the  horrors  of  the  trenches — the  vermin  an'  rats — it 
don't  scare  him  none,  although  Johnny  tells  the  French  officer  he  never 
had  no  rats. 

Johnny  tells  me  he  sees  two  kings  on  this  trip.  The  only  kind  of 
kings  he's  ever  had  anything  to  do  with  before  is  when  he's  playin' 
stud  poker  an'  it's  his  deal.  Then  sometimes  he's  fast  enough  to  get 
one  off  the  bottom. 

One  of  these  kings  excuses  himself  for  not  shakin'  hands,  but  he's 
doin'  his  own  washin'  an'  has  both  front  legs  in  the  suds  to  his 
shoulders.  It  seems  hes  lost  his'  job  wearin'  a  crown. 

The  other  one  he  meets  asks  him  in  to  feed.  This  king  is  plumb 
tickled  when  Johnny  tells  him  he's  from  Montana,  an'  says  he  ranged 
over  that  same  territory  one  summer  while  on  a  trip  to  educate  him- 
self. When  Johnny  tells  his  majesty  that  the  lid's  on  there  now,  the 
king  chokes  an'  big  tears  come  to  his  blinkers.  It's  quite  a  few  minutes 
before  he  can  speak  without  bustin'  into  sobs.  When  he  gets  back 
to  himself  again  he  inquires  in  a  tremblin'  voice,  "How's  Fifteen-two 


28 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


and  that  refined  gentleman,  French  Charlie!"  There's  another  bust 
of  sorrow  when  Johnny  tells  him  Fifteen's  herdin'  hogs  for  Sid  Willis 
on  the  Teton,  an'  French  Charlie's  cookin'  for  a  Flathead  chief  on  the 
Pend  d'Oreilles.  Catchin'  the  king  while  his  heart's  soft,  Johnny 
touches  him  for  a  cigarette. 


Johnny  Lunches  With  the  Kin* 

Johnny's  says  he  wonders  what  it  is  the  king's  feedin'  him,  but 
seein'  it's  war  times,  he's  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  ask  any  questions. 
He  says  it  reminds  him  of  a  feed  he  had  once  with  Little  Bear  in  the 
Cree  camp.  Of  course  then  he  knowed  what  the  victuals  was  because 
he  missed  one  of  the  dogs. 

Speakin'  about  old  days  in  Montana,  the  king  says  the  best  named 
man  he  met  out  there  was  Kickin'  George.  "I  played  one  afternoon 
with  the  Kicker  at  Pat  O'Hara's  place  at  Geyser,"  he  says,  "an'  he 
just  naturally  roared  me  out  of  my  money.  He  had  me  buffaloed,  bat 
I've  been  told  since  that  George  ain't  got  the  sand  of  a  pee-wee." 

"I'm  almost  afraid  to  ask,"  says  the  king,  "but  have  they  closed 
Shorty  Young's  place  at  Havre!  One  of  the  pleasantest  remem- 
brances I've  got  during  my  career  is  an  afternoon  an'  evenin'  at 
Shorty's  place.  The  music  was  soft  an'  dreamy  as  the  breezes  whis- 
pered through  the  willows  on  Bull  Hook  creek.  My  country  is  noted 
for  its  cooks,  but  our  mixers  of  beverages  is  dirty  deuces  compared 
with  Shorty  Young — he's  the  ace,"  an'  the  king  heaves  a  sigh. 

Johnny  never  gets  to  tell  me  the  rest  of  his  trip,  as  when  he  gets 
this  far  he's  got  to  «atch  a  train  for  Browning,  where  he's  going  to 
make  a  talk  to  his  old  friends,  the  Piegans. 


When  Mix  Went  to  School 

SCHOOL  days,  school  days,  dear  old  Golden  Eule  days — that's  the 
song  I've  heer'd  'em  sing,  says  Rawhide  Eawlins,  an'  it  may  be 
all  right  now,  but  there  was  no  thin'  dear  about  school  days  when 
I  got  my  learnin'.  As  near  as  I  can  remember  them  he-school  marms  we 
had  was  made  of  the  same  material  as  a  bronco  busteri   Any  way  the 
one  I  went  to  in  Missouri  had  every  kid  whip-broke.  He'd  call  a  name 
an'  pick  up  a  hickory,  an'  the  owner  of  the  name  would  come  tremblin' 
to  the  desk. 

Charlie  Mix — maybe  some  of  you  knowed  him — that  used  to  run 
the  stage  station  at  Stanford,  tells  me  about  his  school  days,  an'  it 
sure  sounds  natural.  As  near  as  I  can  remember,  he's  foaled  back  in  the 
hills  in  New  York  state.  There's  a  bunch  of  long,  ganglin'  kids  in  this 
neck  of  the  woods  that's  mostly  the  offspring  of  old-time  lumber  jacks 
that's  drifted  down  in  that  country,  an'  nobody  has  to  tell  you  that  this 
breed  will  fight  a  buzz-saw  an'  give  it  three  turns  the  start. 

These  old  grangers  bring  in  all  kinds  of  teachers  for  this  school, 
but  none  of  'em  can  stay  the  week  out.  The  last  one  the  kids  trim  is 
pretty  game  an'  is  over  average  as  a  rough  an'  tumble  fighter,  but  his 
age  is  agin  him.  He's  tall  an'  heavy  in  the  shoulders  like  a  work  bull, 
and'  he  wears  long  moss  on  his  chin  which  he's  sure  proud  of,  but  it 
turns  out  it  don't  help  him  none  to  win  a  battle.  Two  or  three  of  these 
Reubens  would  be  easy  for  him,  but  when  they  start  doublin'  up  on 
him  about  ten  strong,  one  or  two  hangin'  in  his  whiskers,  another 
couple  ham-stringin'  him  and  the  rest  swingin'  on  him  with  slates,  it 
makes  him  dizzy.  Eye-gougin'  an'  bitin'  ain't  barred  either,  an'  this 
wisdom-bringer  has  got  the  same  chance  of  winnin'  as  a  grasshopper 
that  hops  into  an  anthill.  He  comes  to  the  school  in  a  spring  buggy 
with  a  high-strung  span  of  roadsters,  but  he  leaves  in  a  light  spring 
wagon,  layin'  on  a  goosehair  bedtick,  with  several  old  ladies  bathin' 
his  wounds.  The  team  is  a  quiet  pair  of  plow  animals,  an'  the  driver 
is  told  to  move  along  slow  an'  avoid  all  bumps. 

It  looks  like  a  life  vacation  to  the  boys,  but  the  old  folks  think 
different.  They  don't  'low  to  have  their  lovin'  offspring  grow  up  into 
no  ignorant  heathen.  So  one  night  these  old  maws  an'  paws  pull  a  kind 
of  medicine  smoke,  an'  two  of  the  oldest  braves  is  detailed  to  go  to 
the  big  camp,  work  the  herd  an'  cut  out  a  corral  boss  for  these  kids. 
They  go  down  to  New  York  City,  an'  after  perusin'  aroun'  they 
locate  a  prize  fighter  that's  out  of  work.  They  question  him,  an'  find- 


30 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


in'  he  can  read  an'  write  an'  knows  the  multiplication  table,  they  hire 
him. 

Next  morning,  Mix  tells  me,  he  shows  up  an'  the  boys  are  all  there 
itchin'  to  tear  into  him.  But  Mix  says  there's  sometin'  about  this 
teacher's  looks  that  makes  him  superstitious.  Of  course  he  don't  say 
nothin' — not  wantin'  to  show  yaller — but  somehow  he's  got  a  hunch 
that  somethin  's  goin '  to  happen. 


\Vhidker.  Didn't  Help  Him 


This  gent's  head  is  smaller  than's  usual  in  humans.  There  don't 
seem  to  be  much  space  above  his  eyes,  an'  his  smile,  which  is  meant 
to  be  pleasant,  is  scary.  There's  a  low  place  where  his  nose  ought  to 
be  an'  he  could  look  through  a  keyhole  with  both  eyes  at  once.  His 
neck's  enough  larger  than  his  head  so  that  he  could  back  out  of  his 
shirt  without  unbuttoning  his  collar.  From  here  down  he's  built  all 
ways  for  scrappin',  an'  when  he's  standin'  at  rest  his  front  feet  hang 
about  even  with  his  knees.  All  this  Mix  takes  in  at  a  glance. 

When  the  school  room  quiets  down  the  new  teacher  pulls  a  nice 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


31 


little  talk.  "Boys,"  says  he,  "I  ain't  huntin'  for  trouble,  but  its  been 
whispered  around  that  this  bunch  is  fighty,  an'  I'm  here  to  tell  you  as 
a  gentleman  that  if  there's  any  battle  pulled,  you  boys  is  goin'  to  take 
second  money." 

The  last  word  ain't  left  his  mouth  till  one  of  the  big  kids  blats  at 
him. 

"Come  here,"  says  he,  kind  of  pleasant,  to  the  kid  that  did  it.  The 
kid  starts,  but  the  whole  bunch  is  with  him. 

The  teacher  don't  move  nor  turn  a  hair,  but  he  kind  of  shuffles 
his  feet  like  he's  rubbin'  the  rosin.  The  first  kid  that  reaches  him  he 
side  steps  an'  puts  him  to  sleep  with  a  left  hook.  The  next  one  he  shoots 
up  under  a  desk  with  an  upper-cut,  and  the  kid  lays  there  snorin'.  They 
begin  goin'  down  so  fast  Mix  can't  count  'em,  but  the  last  he  remem- 
bers he  sees  the  big  dipper  an'  the  north  star,  an'  a  comet  cuts  a  hole 
through  the  moon.  When  he  comes  to,  it  looks  like  the  battle  of  Bull 
Run,  an'  teacher  is  bendin'  over,  pourin'  water  on  him  from  a  bucket. 
He  can  hear  what  few  girl  scholars  there  is  outside  cryin'. 

When  he  gets  through  bringin'  his  scholars  back  to  life,  he  tells 
the  boys  to  get  their  song  books  an'  line  up. 

"Now,"  says  he,  "turn  to  page  40  an'  we  will  sing  that  beautiful 
little  song: 

"  'Every  Monday  mornin'  we  are  glad  to  go  to  school, 
For  we  love  our  lovin'  teacher  an'  obey  his  kindly  rule.'  " 

"He  makes  us  sing  that  every  mornin',"  says  Mix,  "an'  we  was 
sure  broke  gentle." 


We  tove  Our  I.ovln'  Teacher. 


When  Pete  Sets  a  Speed  Mark 

SIZIN'  Pete  Van  up  from  looks,  says  Rawhide,  you'd  never  pick  him 
for  speed,  an'  I,  myself,  never  see  Pete  make  a  quick  move  without 
a  hoss  under  him.  If  Pete 's  entered  in  a  foot  race  most  folks  would 
play  him  with  a  copper,  but  Bill  Skelton  claims  Pete's  the  swiftest 
animal  he  ever  see,  barrin'  nothin'.  At  that  Bill  says  he  never  saw  Pete 
show  speed  but  once,  an'  that's  back  in  about  '78. 

They're  in  the  Musselshell  country,  an'  one  mornin'  they're  out 
after  meat.  They  ain't  traveled  far  till  they  sight  dust.  In  them  days 
this  means  Injuns  or  buffalo.  This  makes  'em  cautious,  'cause  they 
ain't  anxious  to  bump  into  no  red  brothers  with  a  bunch  of  stolen  hosses. 
When  Injuns  are  traveling  with  this  kind  of  goods  it  ain't  safe  to  detain 
'em,  an'  Pete  an'  Bill  both  are  too  genteel  to  horn  in  where  they  ain't 
welcome,  specially  if  it's  a  big  party.  Of  course,  if  it's  a  small  bunch 
they'd  be  pleased  to  relieve  them  by  the  help  of  their  rifles. 

They  start  cayotin'  around  the  hills  till  they  sight  long  strings  of 
brown  grass-eaters.  This  herd  ain't  disturbed  none — just  travelin'. 
This  means  meat  an'  plenty  of  it,  so  gettin'  the  wind  right,  they 
approach. 

The  country's  rough,  an'  by  holdin'  the  coulees  they're  within  a 
hundred  yards  before  they're  noticed.  It's  an  old  bull  that  tips  their 
hand;  this  old  boy  kinks  his  tail  and  jumps  stiff -legged.  This  starts 
the  whole  bunch  runnin',  but  it  ain't  a  minute  till  Pete  and  Bill's 
among  'em. 

Pete  singles  out  a  cow  an'  Bill  does  the  same.  Pete's  so  busy 
emptyin'  his  Henry  into  this  cow  that  he  forgets  all  about  his  saddle. 
He's  ridin'  an  old-fashioned  center-fire.  His  hoss  is  young  an'  shad- 
bellied,  an'  with  a  loose  cinch  the  saddle's  workin'  back.  The  first 
thing  Pete  knows  he's  ridin'  the  cayuse's  rump.  This  hoss  ain't  broke 
to  ride  double  an'  objects  to  anybody  sittin'  on  the  hind  seat,  so  he 
sinks  his  head  and  unloads  Pete  right  in  front  of  a  cow. 

Bill,  who's  downed  his  meat,  looks  up  just  in -time  to  see  Pete  land, 
and  he  'lights  runnin'.  Bill  says  the  cow  only  once  scratches  the  grease 
on  Pete's  pants.  From  then  on  it's  Pete's  race.  It  look 's  like  the  cow 
was  standin'  still. 

Anybody  that  knows  anything  about  buffaloes  knows  that  cows 
can  run.  Pete  don't  only  beat  the  cow,  but  runs  by  his  own  hoss,  which 
by  this  time  is  leavin'  the  country. 

"Pete's  so  scared,"  says  Bill,  "that  I  damn  near  run  my  own  hoss 
down  tryin'  to  turn  him  back." 


Bill's  Shelby  Hotel 

THEY  tell  me,  says  Eawhide,  that  Bill's  goin'  to  build  a  fine  hotel 
for  tourists  up  on  Flathead  Lake,  not  far  from  where  his  ranch 
is.     I  stayed  with  him  a  time  or  two  when  he's  runnin'  that  big 
hotel  in  Great  Falls,  an'  he  sure  savvies  makin'  folks  comfortable. 

You  wouldn't  ever  figger  that  Bill  would  be  runnin'  one  of  these 
fine  modern  hotels  if  you'd  knowed  him  when  I  first  run  onto  him 
twenty-five  years  ago.  It's  hard  to  recognize  Bill  in  them  good  clothes, 
with  a  white  collar  an'  a  diamond  as  big  as  a  Mexican  bean  in  his  tie 
if  you  wasn't  told  it  was  the  same  man. 

Bill  was  born  near  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  and  as  a  boy  was  knowed  as 
the  champion  lightweight  corn  shucker  of  Hog  Bristle  county.  But 
when  he  gets  to  manhood  he  takes  a  dislike  to  work,  an'  after  hoardin' 
his  wages  of  three  dollars  a  month  for  eight  years,  he  just  naturally 
steps  underneath  a  freight  train  one  mornin'  with  his  bankroll  an'  takes 
a  seat  on  the  rods.  He  gives  one  lingerin'  look  at  the  old  homestead 
and  tells  the  brakeman  he  can  turn  her  loose. 

Bill  finds  a  pleasant  travelin'  companion  in  a  noted  tourist,  Brake- 
beam  Ben,  who  kindly  divides  his  conversation  an'  whatever  little 
things  he  has  on  him.  Some  of  these  last  makes  lively  company  for  Bill, 
who  finds  travelin'  pleasant  an'  makes  lots  of  stops  at  points  of  interest 
along  the  line.  He  gets  acquainted  with  several  men  who  wear  stars 
an'  brass  buttons.  They  all  take  a  kindly  interest  in  Bill,  an'  after  in- 
sistin'  on  his  spendin'  a  few  days  with  them,  show  him  the  railroad 
tracks  out  of  town  and  wish  him  a  pleasant  journey. 

A  year  or  so  later  Bill  arrives  in  McCartyville,  a  town  that  in  them 
days  was  about  as  quiet  an'  peaceful  as  Russia  is  today.  McCartyville 
consists  of  a  graveyard  an'  one  or  two  ghost  cabins  now,  but  then  it's  a 
construction  camp  for  the  Great  Northern,  an'  there  ain't  a  tougher  one 
on  earth,  even  in  them  times.  The  most  prosperous  business  men  in 
McCartyville  was  the  undertakers.  They  kept  two  shifts  at  work  all 
the  time,  an'  every  mornin'  they'd  call  at  the  hotel  an'  saloons  to  carry 
out  the  victims  of  the  night  before.  No  one  asked  no  questions. 

When  Bill  steps  off  the  train  there  he  has  an  Iowa  thirst,  an'  he's 
just  as  welcome  as  his  remainin'  two  dollars  an'  a  half,  which  is  good 
for  just  ten  drinks.  To  this  prohibition-raised  boy  this  is  a  real  novelty, 
for  where  he  comes  from,  no  one  drinks  without  hidin'  in  the  cellar. 
Bill  tells  me  that  the  lives  of  a  lot  of  his  friends  there  is  just  one  long 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


35 


game  of  hide-and-seek.  In  them  days  an  lowan  could  drink  more  in 
one  swaller  than  the  average  westerner  can  in  three  hours,  so  Bill's 
called  on  frequent  by  the  barkeep  to  slow  up,  as  they  can  only  make 
just  so  much  liquor  every  twenty-four  hours. 

It's  here  Bill  gets  his  trainin'  in  hotel- 
runnin'  from  washin'  dishes  to  dealin'  bis- 
cuits through  the  smoke  that  hangs  heavy 
around  the  dinin'  room.  At  the  end  of 
three  days  he's  told  by  the  marshal  to 
climb  the  hill  an'  back -track  as  far  as  he 
likes.  Bill  said  that  they  didn't  like  no 
peaceful  disposed  citizens  there,  but  I 
never  hear  no  one  else  accuse  him  of  this 
weakness  he  claims. 


A  '7  da?s later  he  lands 

where  the  citizens  are  surprised  and  de- 
lighted to  see  him  separate  himself  from 
the  rods.  He's  covered  with  dust  an'  re- 
sembles part  of  the  runnin'  gear.  In  this 
way  he  was  able  to  hide  out  from  the 
brakies.  "When  he  asks  for  a  room  with  a 
bath,  it's  too  much  for  the  clerk,  who  has 
a  nervous  temperament  an'  has  spent  the 
previous  evenin'  drinkin'  Shelby  coca-cola, 
an'  he  shoots  Bill's  hat  off.  This  drink  I 
mention  was  popular  among  the  Shelbyites 
of  that  day.  It 's  a  mixture  of  alkali  water, 
alcohol,  tobacco  juice  an'  a  dash  of  strych- 
nine— the  last  to  keep  the  heart  goin'. 

This  outburst  of  the  clerk  don't  scare 
Bill  none,  as  he's  been  permanently  cured 
of  gunshyness  at  McCartyville.  As  the 
clerk  lowers  his  gun,  Bill  warps  a  couplin' 
pin  just  under  where  the  gent's  hat  rests. 
The  hat's  ruined,  but  the  clerk  comes  to 
three  days  later  to  find  Bill's  got  his  job. 
This  is  where  Bill  breaks  into  the  hotel 
business.  A  week  later  in  a  game  of  stud 
poker  he  wins  the  hotel.  I  never  believe  the  story  whispered  around 
by  some  of  the  citizens  that  it's  a  cold  deck  that  did  it. 

Bill's  chef's  one  of  the  most  rapid  cooks  known  in  the  west.  He 
hangs  up  a  bet  of  a  hundred  dollars  that  with  the  use  of  a  can-opener, 
he  can  feed  more  cowpunchers  an'  sheepherders  than  any  other  cook 
west  of  the  Mississippi.  There's  never  no  complaint  about  the  meat, 


Bill's   Chef. 


36 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


either,  for  this  cook's  as  good  with  a  gun  as  he  is  with  a  can-opener.  In 
fact,  no  one  ever  claims  he  ain't  a  good  cook  after  takin'  one  look  at  him. 

Shelby's  changed  a  lot  since  them  days.  In  the  old  times  the 
residents  there  include  a  lot  of  humorists  who  have  a  habit  of  stoppin' 
trains  an'  entertainin'  the  passengers.  Most  of  these  last  is  from  the 
east,  an'  they  seemed  to  be  serious-minded,  with  little  fun  in  their  make- 
up. The  Shelby  folks  get  so  jokey  with  one  theatrical  troupe  that  stops 
there  that  many  of  these  actors  will  turn  pale  today  at  the  mention  of  the 
place.  At  last  Jim  Hill  gets  on  the  fight  an'  threatens  to  build  around 
by  way  of  Gold  Butte  an'  cut  out  Shelby,  preferrin'  to  climb  the  Sweet- 
grass  hills  to  runnin'  his  trains  through  this  jolly  bunch. 

This  hotel  of  Bill's  was  one  of  the  few  places  I've  seen  that's  got 
flies  both  winter  an'  summer.  During  the  cold  months  they  come  from 
all  over  the  northwest  to  winter  with  Bill,  an'  hive  in  the  kitchen  an' 
dinin'  room.  Bill  claims  they're  intelligent  insects,  as  they'll  spend 
several  hours  a  day  in  warm  weather  frolickin'  around  the  hog  pens, 
but  when  he  rings  the  triangle  for  meals  they  start  in  a  cloud  for  the 
dinin'  room.  For  a  home-like,  congenial  place  for  a  fly  to  live,  you 
couldn't  beat  Bill's  hotel. 

Bill's  run  several  hotels  since  this,  an'  as  he's  kept  on  goin'  up  in 
the  business,  this  new  one  he's  goin'  to  tackle  on  the  lake  will  probably 
top  'em  all,  but  it's  doubtful  if  he'll  be  able  to  furnish  as  much  excite- 
ment for  his  guests  as  the  old  place  at  Shelby  used  to  provide  for  the 
boarders. 


r^ 


<+~S*?*Vf\ 

*~p3"     '  -^ 


Shelby    Humorists    Entertain    Passengers 


A  Reformed  Cowpuncher  at  Miles  City 

I  DIDN'T  go  to  the  stockmen's  meet  at  Miles,  myself,  says  Rawhide, 
but  Teddy  Blue  tells  me  about  it,  an'  as  the  strongest  thing  he  used 
as  a  joy  bringer  is  a  maple  nut  Sunday  mixed  by  a  lady  bartender, 
I  guess  his  sight  is  pretty  clear. 

Teddy  has  attended  a  lot  of  these  gatherings  in  years  gone  by,  but 
always  before  those  rock  bass  eyes  of  his  was  dimmed  by  cow-swallows 
of  Miles  City  home-made  liquid  fire,  so  he's  mostly  numb  an'  uncon- 
scious of  what's  goin'  on  after  the  first  few  hours. 

This  time  Teddy's  a  little  nervous  an'  keeps  his  hat  brim  pretty 
well  down  over  his  eyes  for  the  first  few  hours  he's  there,  as  he's  not 
sure  whether  he'll  be  recognized  by  the  man  who  was  sheriff  at  Miles 
some  years  back  an'  wanted  Teddy  to  take  room  an'  board  with  him 
for  a  few  months  for  shootin'  up  a  canary  bird  in  a  place  where  Teddy 
an'  a  few  of  his  friends  are  pullin'  a  concert.  Ted  claims  this  canary 
insulted  him  several  times  before  he  gets  ringy  by  breakin'  in  with  his 
ditty  while  Ted's  singin'  The  Texas  Banger. 

"When  Teddy  leaves  town  that  time  his  hoss  wonders  at  the  hurry 
they're  in,  an'  when  they  reach  the  high  ground  Ted  looks  back  and  sees 
there's  still  a  string  of  dust  in  Milestown  that  ain't  had  time  to  settle 
since  his  boss's  feet  tore  it  loose.  He  plays  in  luck,  for  the  sheriff, 
knowin'  Ted's  from  Texas,  goes  south,  while  Ted's  headin'  for  the 
north  pole.  He's  just  toppin'  the  hill  out  of  Miles  when  he  runs  down 
a  jackrabbit  that  gets  in  his  way.  Teddy  says  he  never  thought  a 
canary  bird  would  have  so  many  friends. 

So  he  feels  easier  at  this  meeting  when  he  finds  the  sheriff  an'  all 
the  canary's  friends  have  either  cashed  in  or  left  the  country. 

Although  Montana's  gone  dry,  this  special  train  from  the  north 
loaded  with  cowmen  and  flockminders,  don't  seem  to  feel  the  drouth 
none,  and  Miles  City  itself  acts  cheerful  under  the  affliction.  Teddy, 
though  he  ain't  drinkin'  nothin'  these  days,  admits  to  me  on  the  quiet 
that  just  the  little  he  inhales  from  his  heavy-breathin'  friends  has  him 
singin'  The  Dyin'  Cowboy.  He  figures  the  ginger  ale  and  root  beer 
they're  throwin'  into  'em  must  have  got  to  workin'  in  the  bottles  a 
little,  judgin'  from  the  cheerful  effect  it  has. 

There's  another  train  from  Helena,  the  headquarters  for  the  law- 
makers, that's  filled  with  a  bunch  that  acts  as  care-free  as  if  they'd 
forgot  there's  such  a  thing  as  an  attorney-general  in  their  camp.  They 
overlooked  bringin'  any  root  beer  with  them,  so  they  had  to  fall  back 


38 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


on  stuff  they  was  used  to.  Teddy  looked  into  one  of  the  Helena  cars, 
he  says,  and  what  he  sees  through  the  smoke  reminds  him  of  Butte  in 
the  days  of  licensed  gamblin'.  He's  told  they're  only  playin'  a  few 
harmless  games  like  Old  Maid,  so  he  figures  they  just  have  the  chips 
lyin'  around  to  make  them  feel  at  home.  He  says  he  can  see  one  banker 
has  plumb  forgot  how  to  play  cards,  for  he  notices  him  slip  an  ace  off 
the  bottom.  Ted  says  the  friendly  and  trustful  feelin'  among  this 
Helena  crowd  is  fine  to  see.  One  time  during  daylight  they  pass 
through  a  tunnel,  an'  strikin'  a  match,  Teddy  sees  every  man  at  the 
table  he's  watchin'  leanin'  forward  all  spread  out  over  his  chips.  They 
was  undoubtedly  afraid  they  might  jolt  into  another  train  and  spill  the 
chips  around,  an'  of  course  it  would  be  a  job  pickin'  'em  up  off  the 
floor. 

There's  one  sport  in  the  Fergus  county  bunch  that  was  raised  on 
the  range,  that  for  size  and  weight  would  take  the  prize  at  the  state  fair 


Kuns  Down  a  Jackrabblt 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  39 

in  the  bull  show,  but  he  ain't  wearin'  any  ribbons  when  Teddy  looks 
at  him. 

Another  gent  from  the  upper  Sun  Eiver  country,  also  born  on  the 
range  an'  raised  in  the  saddle,  ain't  no  baby  in  build.  He's  had  a  hoss 
under  him  so  long  that  his  legs  is  kind  of  warped,  an'  when  he  sits  in 
one  of  the  chairs  they  have  these  days  in  front  of  the  root  beer  bars,  he 
straddles  it  instead  of  sittin'  like  a  human.  This  feller,  like  Teddy, 
ain't  usin'  no  thin'  stronger  than  the  law  allows  now,  but  in  old  days 
he  was  no  stranger  to  corn  juice  or  any  of  the  other  beverages  that 
brought  cheer  and  pleasure  to  the  life  of  a  cowpuncher.  At  the  stock 
meetin's  he  used  to  attend,  all  the  speakin'  he  listened  to  was  done  in 
front  of  a  bar. 

One  of  the  oldest  cow  owners  in  the  bunch,  whose  front  name's  Bill 
and  who  in  years  past  was  known  all  over  Montana,  does  most  of  his 
ridin'  in  an  automobile  these  days.  Bill's  in  the  bankin'  business  now 
an'  you  might  think  he's  cold-blooded,  but  I  know  different.  To  sick 
folks  he's  almost  motherly.  One  time  in  the  Lake  Basin  country  Bill's 
trailin'  the  F  beef  south,  an'  he's  on  ahead  lookin'  for  water  when  he 
runs  onto  a  sheepherder  that's  lyin'  on  the  prairie,  havin'  spasms.  The 
shepherd  tells  this  good  Samaritan  that  he's  swallered  strychnine. 

Now,  most  cowmen  them  days  would  have  let  a  wooly  herder  slip 
across  the  divide  with  the  wolf  bait  in  him,  but  Bill's  heart  softens,  an' 
the  way  he  quirts  his  hoss  down  the  hind  leg  for  camp  is  scary.  When 
he  returns  at  the  same  gait  he's  packin'  a  ten-pound  lard  can,  an' 
buildin'  a  chip  fire,  he  warms  this  hog  fat  till  it  runs  easy.  Then  with 
the  help  of  an  iron  spoon  an'  three  or  four  good  calf-rastlers  to  hold 
him,  Bill  empties  the  whole  ten  pounds  into  the  shepherd.  About  the 
time  Bill  runs  out  of  lard,  a  stranger  rides  up  an'  breaks  the  news  to 
him  that  he's  treatin'  a  case  of  snakes  from  Billings  booze  instead  of 
strychnine.  The  herder  recovers,  but  for  six  months  he  sweats  straight 
leaf  lard,  an'  his  hide's  so  slick  he  can  hardly  keep  his  garments  on. 

There's  one  gentleman  from  Great  Falls  in  the  party  who  don't 
deal  in  livestock,  and  whose  name  spells  strong  of  Irish.  This  gent  is 
drinkin'  coca  cola,  but  judgin'  by  the  expression  in  his  eye,  Teddy  Blue 
thinks  some  jobber  has  slipped  something  else  into  his  beverage.  He 
gets  so  lit  up  one  night  in  the  sleeper  that  he  dreams  he's  a  dry  goods 
store  and  yells  fire,  which  causes  a  panic  and  many  of  the  peaceful 
sleepers  leaped  from  the  upper  berths.  One  heavy  man — the  gent  from 
the  Sun  Eiver  valley — was  lucky  enough  to  fall  on  his  head,  so  he  wasn't 
injured  none. 

Joe  Scanlan,  the  Lord  Northcliffe  of  Milestown,  seems  to  be  actin' 
as  head  of  the  entertainment  committee,  an'  he  must  have  used  up  a 
month's  supply  of  gasoline  in  two  days  haulin'  friends  and  strangers  to 


40 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


points  of  interest,  like  the  Powder  River  special  on  the  Milwaukee 
tracks. 

One  of  the  attractions  that  the  visitors  enjoyed  at  Miles  was  Huff- 
man's collection  of  range  pictures  at  the  fine  art  studio  he  has  built  to 
keep  'em  in.  Huffman  was  post  photographer  at  Fort  Keogh  in  the 
old  Indian  fightin'  days  of  the  '70s  and  is  one  of  the  real  old  timers  in 
this  business  in  Montana,  which  his  pictures  show. 

Teddy  Blue  meets  an  old  friend  of  his,  Jack  Hawkins,  who  he  hasn  't 
seen  for  years.  Hawkins  is  an  old  Texas  ranger,  an'  he  drifts  into 
Montana  as  a  buffalo  hunter  in  the  late  '70s.  He's  later  sheriff  of 
Ouster  county.  Hawkins  has  seen  some  real  fightin'  when  Indians  an' 
outlaws  was  bad  in  the  early  days  in  Texas.  If  you  want  to  hear  a  good 
story  some  time,  ask  Jack  about  scalpin'  a  Comanche. 

Although  Miles  has  always  been  a  cow  town,  it's  earned  the  right 
to  be  called  a  city,  an'  they  handled  the  visitors  in  the  old  welcome  way 
of  the  west. 


Htrnddles  It  In*t«ad  of  Slttln'   Like  a  Human 


The  Story  of  the  Cowpuncher 

SPEAKIN'  of  cowpunchers,  says  Rawhide,  I'm  glad  to  see  in  the 
last  few  years  that  them  that  know  the  business  have  been  writin' 
about  'em.     It  begin  to  look  like  they'd  be  wiped  out  without  a 
history.    Up  to  a  few  years  ago  there 's  mighty  little  known  about  cows 
and  cow  people.    It  was  sure  amusin'  to  read  some  of  them  old  stories 
about  cowpunchin'.      You'd  think  a  puncher  growed  horns    'n  was 
haired  over. 

It  put  me  in  mind  of  the  eastern  girl  that  asks  her  mother:  "Ma," 
says  she,  "do  cowboys  eat  grass?"  "No,  dear,"  says  the  old  lady, 
"they're  part  human,"  'n  I  don't  know  but  the  old  gal  had  'em  sized 
up  right.  If  they  are  human,  they're  a  separate  species.  I'm  talkin' 
about  the  old-time  ones,  before  the  country's  strung  with  wire  'n 
nesters  had  grabbed  all  the  water,  'n  a  cowpuncher's  home  was  big. 
It  wasn't  where  he  took  his  hat  off,  but  where  he  spread  his  blankets. 
He  ranged  from  Mexico  to  the  Big  Bow  river  of  the  north,  'n  from 
where  the  trees  get  scarce  in  the  east  to  the  old  Pacific.  He  don't  need 
no  iron  hoss,  but  covers  his  country  on  one  that  eats  grass  'n  wears  hair. 
All  the  tools  he  needed  was  saddle,  bridle,  quirt,  hackamore  'n  rawhide 
riatta  or  seagrass  rope;  that  covered  his  hoss. 

The  puncher  himself  was  rigged,  startin'  at  the  top,  with  a  good 
hat — not  one  of  the  floppy  kind  you  see  in  pictures,  with  the  rim  turned 
up  in  front.  The  top-cover  he  wears  holds  its  shape  'n  was  made  to 
protect  his  face  from  the  weather;  maybe  to  hold  it  on,  he  wore  a  buck- 
skin string  under  the  chin  or  back  of  the  head.  Bound  his  neck  a  big 
silk  handkerchief,  tied  loose  'n  in  the  drag  of  a  trail  herd  it  was  drawn 
over  the  face  to  the  eyes,  hold-up  fashion,  to  protect  the  nose  'n  throat 
from  dust.  In  old  times,  a  leather  blab  or  mask  was  used  the  same. 
Coat,  vest  'n  shirt  suits  his  own  taste.  Maybe  he'd  wear  California 
pants,  light  buckskin  in  color,  with  large,  brown  plaid,  sometimes  foxed, 
or  what  you'd  call  reinforced  with  buck  or  antelope  skin.  Over  these 
came  his  chaparejos  or  leggin  's.  His  feet  were  covered  with  good  high- 
heeled  boots,  finished  off  with  steel  spurs  of  Spanish  pattern.  His 
weapon's  usually  a  forty -five  Colt's  six-gun,  which  is  packed  in  a  belt, 
swingin'  a  little  below  his  right  hip.  Sometimes  a  Winchester  in  a 
scabbard,  slung  to  his  saddle  under  his  stirrup-leather,  either  right  or 
left  side,  but  generally  left;  stock  forward,  lock  down,  as  his  rope 
hangs  at  his  saddle-fork  on  the  right. 

By  all  I  can  find  out  from  old,  gray  headed  punchers,  the  cow 
business  started  in  California,  'n  the  Spaniards  were  the  first  to  burn 


A    Center-Fire    Fashion     Leader 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  43 

marks  on  their  cattle  'n  bosses,  'n  use  the  rope.  Then  men  from  the 
States  drifted  west  to  Texas,  pickin'  up  the  brandin'  iron  'n  lass-rope, 
'n  the  business  spread  north,  east  'n  west,  till  the  spotted  long-horns 
walked  in  every  trail  marked  out  by  their  brown  cousins — the  buffalo. 

Texas  'n  California,  bein'  the  startin'  places,  made  two  species  of 
cowpunchers;  those  west  of  the  Rockies  rangin'  north,  usin'  centerfire 
or  single-cinch  saddles,  with  high  fork  'n  cantle;  packed  a  sixty  or 
sixty-five  foot  rawhide  rope,  'n  swung  a  big  loop.  These  cow  people 
were  generally  strong  on  pretty,  usin'  plenty  of  hoss  jewelry,  silver- 
mounted  spurs,  bits  'n  conchas;  instead  of  a  quirt,  used  a  romal,  or 
quirt  braided  to  the  end  of  the  reins.  Their  saddles  were  full  stamped, 
with  from  twenty -four  to  twenty-eight-inch  eagle-bill  tapaderos.  Their 
chaparejos  were  made  of  fur  or  hair,  either  bear,  angora  goat  or  hair 
sealskin.  These  fellows  were  sure  fancy,  'n  called  themselves  bucca- 
roos,  coming  from  the  Spanish  word,  "Vacquero." 

The  cowpuncher  east  of  the  Rockies  originated  in  Texas  and  ranged 
north  to  the  Big  Bow.  He  wasn't  so  much  for  pretty;  his  saddle  was 
low  horn,  rimfire  or  double-cinch;  sometimes  "macheer."  Their  rope 
was  seldom  over  forty  feet,  for  being  a  good  deal  in  a  brush  country, 
they  were  forced  to  swing  a  small  loop.  These  men  generally  tied, 
instead  of  taking  their  dallie-welts,  or  wrapping  their  rope  around  the 
saddle  horn.  Their  chaparejos  were  made  of  heavy  bullhide,  to  protect 
the  leg  from  brush  'n  thorns,  with  hog-snout  tapaderos. 

Cowpunchers  were  mighty  particular  about  their  rig,  'n  in  all  the 
camps  you'd  find  a  fashion  leader.  From  a  cowpuncher 's  idea,  these 
fellers  was  sure  good  to  look  at,  'n  I  tell  you  right  now,  there  ain't  no 
prettier  sight  for  my  eyes  than  one  of  those  good-lookin',  long-backed 
cowpunchers,  sittin'  up  on  a  high-forked,  full-stamped  California  saddle 
with  a  live  hoss  between  his  legs. 

Of  course  a  good  many  of  these  fancy  men  were  more  ornamental 
than  useful,  but  one  of  the  best  cow-hands  I  ever  knew  belonged  to 
this  class.  Down  on  the  Gray  Bull,  he  went  under  the  name  of  Mason, 
but  most  punchers  called  him  Pretty  Shadow.  This  sounds  like  an 
Injun  name,  but  it  ain't.  It  comes  from  a  habit  some  punchers  has  of 
ridin'  along,  lookin'  at  their  shadows.  Lookin'  glasses  are  scarce  in 
cow  outfits,  so  the  only  chance  for  these  pretty  boys  to  admire  them- 
selves is  on  bright,  sunshiny  days.  Mason's  one  of  these  kind  that 
doesn't  get  much  pleasure  out  of  life  in  cloudy  weather.  His  hat  was 
the  best;  his  boots  was  made  to  order,  with  extra  long  heels.  He  rode 
a  centerfire,  full-stamped  saddle,  with  twenty-eight-inch  tapaderos; 
bearskin  ancaroes,  or  saddle  pockets;  his  chaparejos  were  of  the  same 
skin.  He  packed  a  sixty-five-foot  rawhide.  His  spurs  'n  bit  were 
silver  inlaid,  the  last  bein'  a  Spanish  spade.  But  the  gaudiest  part  of 


44  RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 

his  regalia  was  his  gun.  It's  a  forty-five  Colt's,  silverplated  'n  chased 
with  gold.  Her  handle  is  pearl,  with  a  bull's  head  carved  on. 

When  the  sun  hits  Mason  with  all  this  silver  on,  he  blazes  up  like 
some  big  piece  of  jewelry.  You  could  see  him  for  miles  when  he's  ridin' 
high  country.  Barrin'  Mexicans,  he's  the  fanciest  cow  dog  I  ever  see, 
'n  don't  ever  think  he  don't  savvy  the  cow.  He  knows  what  she  says 
to  her  calf.  Of  course  there  wasn't  many  of  his  stripe.  All  punchers 
liked  good  rigs,  but  plainer;  'n  as  most  punchers  're  fond  of  gamblin' 
'n  spend  their  spare  time  at  stud  poker  or  monte,  so  they  can't  tell  what 
kind  of  a  rig  they'll  be  ridin'  the  next  day.  I've  seen  many  a  good 
rig  lost  over  a  blanket.  It  depends  how  lucky  the  cards  fall  what  kind 
of  a  rig  a  man's  ridin'. 

I'm  talkin'  about  old  times,  when  cowmen  were  in  their  glory. 
They  lived  different,  talked  different  'n  had  different  ways.  No 
matter  where  you  met  him,  or  how  he 's  rigged,  if  you  'd  watch  him  close 
he'd  do  something  that  would  tip  his  hand.  I  had  a  little  experience 
back  in  '83  that'll  show  what  I'm  gettin'  at. 

I  was  winterin'  in  Cheyenne.     One  night  a  stranger  stakes  me  to 


Rim- 


RAWHIDE  RAWLJNS  STORIES  *6 

buck  the  bank.  I  got  off  lucky  'n  cash  in  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  Of 
course  I  cut  the  money  in  two  with  my  friend,  but  it  leaves  me  with 
the  biggest  roll  I  ever  packed.  All  this  wealth  makes  Cheyenne  look 
small,  'n  I  begin  longin'  for  bigger  camps,  so  I  drift  for  Chicago.  The 
minute  I  hit  the  burg,  I  shed  my  cow  garments  'n  get  into  white  man's 
harness.  A  hard  hat,  boiled  shirt,  laced  shoes — all  the  gearin'  known 
to  civilized  man.  When  I  put  on  all  this  rig,  I  sure  look  human;  that 
is,  I  think  so.  But  them  shorthorns  know  me,  'n  by  the  way  they  trim 
that  roll,  it  looks  like  somebody's  pinned  a  card  on  my  back  with  the 
words  "EASY"  in  big  letters.  I  ain't  been  there  a  week  till  my  roll 
don't  need  no  string  around  it,  'n  I  start  thinkin'  about  home.  One 
evenin'  I  throw  in  with  the  friendliest  feller  I  ever  met.  It  was  at  the 
bar  of  the  hotel  where  I'm  camped.  I  don't  just  remember  how  we  got 
acquainted,  but  after  about  fifteen  drinks  we  start  holdin'  hands  'n 
seein'  who  could  buy  the  most  and  fastest.  I  remember  him  tellin'  the 
barslave  not  to  take  my  money,  cause  I'm  his  friend.  Afterwards,  I 
find  out  the  reason  for  this  goodheartedness ;  he  wants  it  all  'n  hates 
to  see  me  waste  it.  Finally,  he  starts  to  show  me  the  town  'n  says  it 
won't  cost  me  a  cent.  Maybe  he  did,  but  I  was  unconscious,  'n  wasn't 
in  shape  to  remember.  Next  day,  when  I  come  to,  my  hair's  sore  'n  I 
didn't  know  the  days  of  the  week,  month  or  what  year  it  was. 

The  first  thing  I  do  when  I  open  my  eyes  is  to  look  at  the  winders. 
There's  no  bars  on  'em,  'n  I  feel  easier.  I'm  in  a  small  room  with  two 
bunks.  The  one  opposite  me  holds  a  feller  that's  smokin'  a  cigarette 
'n  sizin'  me  up  between  whiffs  while  I'm  dressin'.  I  go  through  myself 
but  I'm  too  late.  Somebody  beat  me  to  it.  I'm  lacin'  my  shoes  'n 
thinkin'  hard,  when  the  stranger  speaks: 

"Neighbor,  you're  a  long  way  from  your  range." 
"You  call  the  turn,"  says  I,  "but  how  did  you  read  my  iron!" 
"I  didn't  see  a  burn  on  you,"  says  he,  "  'n  from  looks,  you'll  go 
as  a  slick-ear.  It's  your  ways,  while  I'm  layin'  here,  watchin'  you  get 
into  your  garments.  Now,  humans  dress  up  'n  punchers  dress  down. 
When  you  raised,  the  first  thing  you  put  on  is  your  hat.  Another  thing 
that  shows  you  up  is  you  don't  shed  your  shirt  when  you  bed  down. 
So  next  comes  your  vest  'n  coat,  keepin'  your  hindquarters  covered  till 
you  slide  into  your  pants,  'n  now  you're  lacin'  your  shoes.  I  notice  you 
done  all  of  it  without  quittin'  the  blankets  like  the  ground's  cold.  I 
don't  know  what  state  or  territory  you  hail  from,  but  you've  smelt 
sagebrush  'n  drank  alkali.  I  heap  savvy  you.  You've  slept  a  whole 
lot  with  nothin'  but  sky  over  your  head,  'n  there's  times  when  that  old 
roof  leaks,  but  judgin'  from  appearances,  you  wouldn't  mind  a  little 
open  air  right  now." 

This  feller's  my  kind,  'n  he  stakes  me  with  enough  to  get  back  to 
the  cow  country. 


Bronc  Twisters 


TALKIN'  about  bronc  twisters,  says  Rawhide,  there's  some  differ- 
ence between  hoss  fighters  today'  an'  them  I  knowed  years  ago. 
I  ain't  sayin'  these  up-to-date  riders  ain't  good  as  they  ever  was, 
an'  I'd  bet  there's  more  of  'em  than  in  the  old  days.    The  bronc  rider 
always  was  and  always  will  be  a  game  glory  hunter,  gritty  as  a  fish-egg 
rolled  in  sand,  but  the  lives  they  live  today  an'  the  rigs  they  ride  are 
different. 

The  modern  bronc  fighter  saddles  an'  steps  across  the  bronc  in  a 
narrer  chute,  or  he's  got  a  bunch  of  hoss  handlers  earin'  the  animal 
down  till  he  saddles  an'  mounts.  Of  course  he's  got  rules  to  ride  under, 
,3^  such  as  keepin'  one  hand  up,  keep- 

in'  his  spurs  loose  an'  scratchin'. 
He  ain't  allowed  to  change  hands, 
reach  for  or  touch  nothin'.  The 
snake  he's  ridin'  is  an  old  outlaw 
from  six  to  fifteen  years  old,  an' 
he's  grain-fed.  It's  a  cinch  a  hoss 
with  a  paunch  full  of  oats  is 
stronger  than  one  with  a  grass  belly. 

These  modern  twisters  ride  a 
swell-fork  saddle  with  high  horn. 
The  cantle  is  also  high  an'  steep. 
Their  spurs  are  long  and  straight- 
shanked.  This  is  the  contest  rider 
I'm  talkin'  about,  an'  he's  a  sure- 


A    Contest    Rider 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


47 


enough  glory  rider.  When  he  breaks  away  from  the  chute  in  the 
middle  of  a  twistin'  snake,  there's  thousands  of  folks  yellin'  their  heads 
off,  but  more'n  half  of  'em's  howlin'  for  the  hoss.  There's  generally 
three  judges  on  bosses  follerin'  him,  seein'  he  don't  pull  no  thin' 
crooked. 

The  big  half  of  the  folks  that  take  in  ridin'  contests  never  rode 
nothin'  but  cushions,  so  if  Mister  Buster  gets  unloaded,  they  say  he 
couldn't  ride;  if  he  stays  an'  scratches  his  bronc  they  say  the  hoss 
didn't  buck.  But  there's  always  a  few  old  bowlegs  that  have  went 
straight  up  to  the  end  of  the  bridle  reins  who  heap  savvy  an'  are  ready 
to  shake  hands  with  this  bronc  rider  whether  he  stays  or  hits  the 
ground.  These  twisters  of  today  are  made  of  the  same  leather  as  the 
old-time  ones.  It  ain't  their  fault  that  the  country's  fenced  an'  most 
of  the  cows  are  wearin'  bells. 


Old  Macheer   Saddle   With   Texa«   Tree 

Now  the  old  bronc  fighter  I  knowed  lived  when  there  wasn't  a  wire 
from  the  Arctic  sea  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  an'  that  whole  stretch  was 
mighty  near  all  his  home.  This  gent  lived  on  either  cow  or  hoss  ranges. 
His  saddle  was  a  straight-fork  with  a  cantle  that  sloped  back,  an'  com- 
pared to  saddles  now,  the  horn  was  low.  I've  seen  bronc  riders  use  an 
old  macheer  saddle  with  a  Texas  tree.  It  had  two  cinches  an'  was  called 
a  rim-fire.  The  horn  was  low  an'  flat — so  big  you  couldn't  more'n 
span  it  with  your  hand.  The  macheer,  as  it  was  called,  was  one  piece 


48 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


of  leather  that  fitted  over  the  cantle  an'  horn,  makin'  a  coverin'  for 
the  whole  rig.  This  leather  was  smooth  an'  so  slick  it  wasn't  easy  to 
stay  in. 

These  old-timers'  spurs  had  crooked  shanks  that  turned  down. 
They  all  rode  an'  broke  broncs  with  a  hackamore.  It  wasn't  a  rope 
one  like  they're  usin'  today,  but  one  made  of  braided  leather  an'  raw- 
hide. Looped  to  this  was  about  fifteen  or  twenty  foot  of  hair  rope 
called  a  McCarthy.  This  was  wrapped  around  the  lower  end  of  the 
noseband  under  the  jaws  of  the  hoss,  makin'  reins  an'  a  tie-rope. 

Range  hosses  them  days  was  wild  as  buffalo,  an '  corraling  a  bunch 
wasn't  always  easy.  But  Mister  Bronc  Fighter's  work  really  begun 
after  the  gate  was  closed  or  the  bars  up,  for  the  first  thing  was  to  rope 
the  one  he  figgered  on  ridin '.  Generally  he  fore-footed  him.  This  made 
him  fairly  safe  in  front,  but  a  bronc's  dangerous  at  both  ends,  an'  the 
bronc  fighter  knows  this.  He  ain't  takin'  chances,  an'  after  he's  got 
the  bronc's  front  feet  snared,  he  man-handles  him  till  he  gets  the  hacka- 
more on.  Then,  sometimes  usin'  a  blind,  he  saddles  him  an'  steps 
across. 


-   /I  I 

L/W  „,  "-- 


A»    Old-Time    Bronc 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  49 

Mebbe  this  bronc's  a  snake,  an'  mebbe  he's  easy,  but  either  way 
there  ain't  nobody  watchin'  but  the  other  broncs.  If  he  rides  him  out- 
side the  corral  h.e  might  buck  through  a  bunch  of  range  cows,  but 
neither  cows  nor  broncs  seem  to  appreciate  good  ridin',  so  there's 
nobody  boostin'  for  this  twister.  The  old  bronc  riders  didn't  only  ride 
a  bronc,  but  they  worked  him.  They'd  take  a  string  of  rough  ones  to 
a  roundup  an'  ride  circle,  cut  cattle  or  rope  off  of  him. 

All  these  things  happended  in  the  good  old  days  long  ago,  when 
men  like  Con  Price,  Charlie  Brewster,  Windy  Bill  Davis,  Kid  Price, 
Little  Jack  Davis,  Happy  Jack  Anderson,  Jim  Dency,  Ed  Rhodes,  Joe 
Doles,  Charlie  Parks,  Johnny  Van,  Bill  Shaules  and  Colonel  Johnson 
were  needed  on  all  the  cow  ranges.  These  men  were  all  well  known 
when  Montana  was  a  cow  country.  They  were  all  riders  that  rode 
smooth  fork. 

Some  of  these  old  riders  is  friends  of  mine.  Charlie  Brewster 's  one 
of  the  best  that  ever  stepped  across  a  hoss,  an'  many  a  bad  one  he's 
tamed.  One  time  Charlie's  ridin'  on  a  roundup.  Of  course  his  string's 
all  broncs,  an'  one  mornin'  he'll  never  forget  he's  got  a  snakey  roan 

under  him  an'  starts  out  on  circle  with  six  other  punchers  in  the  Deep 
creek  country.  This  stream  in  places  is  walled  in  with  rimrock  cliffs 
that  run  up  twenty  to  sixty  feet  above  the  bottom. 

They're  ridin'  along  mebbe  twenty  yards  from  the  edge  of  one  of 
these  rims  when  Charlie  drops  his  hackamore  reins  an'  builds  a  cigar- 
ette. Most  men  ridin'  a  hoss  like  this  roan  would  be  careful,  but  it's  dif- 
ferent with  Charlie.  He  don't  fear  no  hoss  on  earth,  an'  he  ain't  askin' 
no  bronc  whether  he  objects  to  smokin'.  While  he's  rollin'  his  smoke  the 
roan  drops  his  ear  down  an'  shows  the  white  of  his  eyes,  so  it's  easy 
to  guess  his  feelin's  is  hurt.  Charlie  strikes  a  match,  but  he  never  lights 
his  cigarette.  While  he's  cuppin'  his  hands  over  the  match,  lettin'  the 
sulphur  burn  off,  somethin' — mebbe  the  brimfire  sniff  he  gets — wakes 
the  hell  in  the  roan.  He  kicks  the  lid  off,  hides  his  head  an'  starts  for 
the  rimrock. 

Charlie  has  plenty  of  time  to  quit,  but  does  he  step  off?  Don't  ever 
think  it.  He  sinks  the  steel  into  the  roan's  right  shoulder  and  throws 
his  weight  on  the  left  rein,  but  he  don't  turn  him.  The  roan's  goin' 
high  an'  scary  when  he  hits  the  edge  of  the  cliff  an'  goes  over. 

There's  a  feller  called  Oregon  John  with  Brewster  when  he  takes 
that  long  jump.  Oregon  tells  me  that  when  he  sees  Charlie  sink  into  the 
landscape  he's  afraid  to  look  over,  but  he'd  have  bet  what  he's  got  an' 
all  he  could  beg,  borrow  or  steal  that  at  the  bottom  he'll  find  a  scramble 
of  man  an'  hoss  meat. 

None  of  the  bunch  says  no  thin',  but  ridin'  up  easy,  like  they're 


Th«    Krone  i    Lodccd    in    th.    Top   ft   •    C*tt*BW»*4 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  81 

goin'  to  a  funeral,  they  peek  over,  an'  what  do  you  think  they  see? 
There,  mebbe  ten  feet  below  the  rimrock,  sits  Charlie  in  the  middle  of 
the  roan.  The  bronc's  lookin'  healthy,  but  uncomfortable.  He's  lodged 
in  the  top  of  a  big  cottonwood.  Charlie's  still  holdin'  his  cigarette,  an' 
when  the  boys  show  up  he  hollers:  "Anybody  got  a  match?  The  one 
I  struck  blowed  out." 

Oregon  says  that  bronc's  sure  helpless,  for  he's  wedged  in  the  old 
tree  so  he  can't  more  than  move  an  ear.  One  of  the  boys  goes  to  camp 
an'  brings  an  axe,  an'  they  have  to  fall  the  tree  to  get  the  roan  out. 

This  story  may  sound  fishy  to  some  folks,  but  it's  true.  Charlie 
Brewster's  still  in  Montana,  an'  I'll  bet  wherever  he  is,  he's  still  with 
hosses.  He  was  a  real  bronc  rider,  an'  all  old-time  cow  men  knew  him. 

I  remember  another  old-time  bronc  fighter  that  could  ride  any  hoss 
livin'  an'  work  with  him.  His  name's  Con  Price,  an'  right  now  he's  with 
a  cow  outfit  in  California.  There's  a  story  about  him  that  a  lot  of 
old  cow  men  will  remember  an'  laugh  about. 

Con's  out  one  time  with  Ed  Eosser,  huntin'  hosses.  They're  riding 
the  high  country,  when  Eosser  pulls  up  his  hoss  an'  points  to  a  nester's 
cabin  in  a  little  valley  below.  "There's  women  in  that  shack,"  says  he. 

"What  makes  you  think  so,"  asks  Con. 

"I  see  washin'  on  the  line  there  a  few  days  ago,"  says  Eosser,  "an' 
all  the  he-folks  we  know,  when  they  do  any  washin',  use  the  creek  an' 
hang  their  clothes  on  the  willers.  But  to  make  my  belief  a  cinch  bet, 
there's  garments  on  that  line  that  ain't  worn  by  no  he-people." 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  right,"  Con  says.  "I  remember  a  few  weeks 
ago  that  nester  told  me  he  had  a  wife  an'  daughter  comin'  out  from 
the  states." 

"Wonder  what  the  gal  looks  like,"  says  Eosser. 

"She's  a  good  looker,  judgin'  from  the  photograph  the  old  man 
shows  me,"  Con  answers. 

In  the  days  when  this  happens,  women 're  scarce,  an'  the  few 
cowpunchers  an'  old  mountain  men  that  lived  in  this  womanless  land 
sure  liked  to  see  a  white  woman  an'  hear  her  voice.  So  Con  an'  Eosser 
start  figgerin'  on  some  kind  of  an  excuse  to  visit  this  ranch.  They 
can't  ask  for  a  drink  of  water,  'cause  the  hills  are  full  of  springs  an' 
they  have  to  cross  the  creek  to  get  to  the  cabin. 

They're  both  studyin'  when  Con  gets  a  plumb  new  one.  The  hoss 
he's  ridin's  a  snuffy  old  boy.  If  you  thumb  him  or  hang  the  steel  in 
his  shoulder  he'll  go  high.  Con's  idea  is  to  start  him  an'  then  fall  off. 

They're  mebbe  fifty  yards  from  the  house  when  Con  throws  one 


52 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


of  his  hooks  in  the  shoulder  of  the  old  hoss,  hopin'  somebody's  lookin' 
from  behind  a  curtain  to  see  the  fall  he  gets.  Once  is  enough.  This 
animal,  like  many  of  his  kind,  considers  this  an  insult,  an'  sinkin'  his 
head,  he  starts  for  the  clouds. 

About  the  third  jump  Con  loosens.  The  hoss,  Con  tells  me  later, 
makes  the  play  realistic.  "When  he  feels  me  goin',''  he  says,  "he 
weaves  off  to  one  side  an'  I  hit  the  ground  a  lot  harder  than  I  expected." 

Con  lays  like  he's  hurt  bad.  Eosser  quits  his  hoss  an'  runs  to  his 
friend,  an'  he's  got  all  he  can  do  to  get  him  on  his  feet. 

"You're  a  sure  enough  actor,"  Rosser  whispers  to  Con.  "You're 
as  heavy  as  a  dead  bear,"  he  says,  as  he  part  leads  an'  part  packs 
him  up  the  hill  to  the  house.  "If  it  was  another  twenty  feet  I'd  have  to 
cut  hand-holds  in  you." 


About   the  Third  Jump   Con    [.lumen* 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


53 


It's  a  cinch  that  anybody  not  on  to  the  play  would  bet  Con's  got  all 
his  legs  broke.  A  sweat's  broke  out  all  over  Rosser  when  he  gently  lays 
Con  on  the  step  an'  knocks  at  the  door. 

Con  lays  there,  listenin'  for  footsteps  of  the  ladies,  but  they  don't 
come.  There's  no  sign  of  life,  an'  the  only  livin'  thing  in  sight  is 
two  hosses — Con 's  and  Rosser 's.  They  're  drif  tin '  mighty  rapidly  home- 
ward. The  one  Con  rode,  with  the  reins  still  over  his  neck,  is  headed 
like  he  knows  where  he's  goin'.  Rosser's  is  follerin'  close  with  his  head 
to  one  side,  so  he  don't  step  on  the  reins.  Lookin'  at  these  hosses,  an' 
nobody  comin,  to  the  door  makes  Con  recover  mighty  fast,  an'  his 
groans  turns  to  cussin'. 

In  them  days,  when  the  country  was  wide  open  an'  lawless,  the 
houses  had  no  keys,  so  after  knockin'  a  few  more  times,  they  both 
walk  in.  Rosser's  right;  it's  a  woman's  camp.  There's  curtains  on 
the  winders  and  flowers  growin'  in  a  tomato  can  that's  settin'  on  a 
table  where  the  sun  hits  them.  From  the  sign,  they  read  there's  two 
ladies  camped  here  an'  they  ain't  to  home.  They  might  have  got 
sympathy  from  these  ladies,  but  they  don't  get  none  from  one  another. 
This  play  of  their  turns  into  a  hoss  joke,  an'  of  course  nobody  laughs 
but  the  hosses. 

It's  a  ten-mile  ride  to  the  ranch,  an'  it  means  twice  that  a-foot  to 
these  spur-heeled  gents,  so  after  prospectin',  they  locate  some  bacon, 
real  light  bread  an'  a  dried  apple  pie.  Finishin'  their  feed  they 
wash  the  dishes  an'  start  on  their  sorrowful  journey. 

Con  laughs  about  it  now,  but  Rosser  says  he  never  even  smiled  the 
day  he  walked.  Rosser  says  Con  had  no  license  to  kick.  He'd  fought 
hosses  all  his  life  and  win  most  of  the  fights.  That  day  he  throws  the 
fight  to  the  hoss.  The  hoss,  bein'  crooked  as  Con,  double-crossed  him. 


Johnny  Reforms  Landusky 

OVER  in  Lewistown  there's  a  gent  livin'  that's  one  of  the  leadin' 
citizens.    I  ain't  tippin'  his  hand  by  mentionin'  no  names,  but  if 
I'd  ever  told  what  I  know  about  him  he'd  be  makin'  hair  bridles 
today,  said  Rawhide.    We'll  call  him  Johnny  an'  let  it  go  at  that. 

A  hoss-wrangler  by  perf ession,  he  has  a  natural  gift  for  cookin '  an ' 
a  keen  affection  for  a  Dutch  oven,  but  in  them  crude  days  his  qualities 
as  a  chef  ain't  appreciated  by  his  rough,  uncouth  comrades  in  Yogo 
gulch,  where  when  I  first  knowed  him  he's  leadin'  a  happy  care-free  life, 
watchin'  the  miners  strugglin'  to  wrest  gold  from  the  unyieldin'  rocks. 
I  remember  one  finicky  proposition  in  the  camp  that  objects  to  Johnny's 
pet  rats  livin'  in  the  flour  sack. 

Johnny 's  got  such  a  good  opinion  of  his  own  cookin '  he  hangs  up  a 
standin'  bet  that  he  can  outcook  any  man  in  Montana,  barrin'  Dirty 
Mike,  a  chef  of  the  Sour  Dough  school,  who's  got  a  sensitive  disposition 
and  is  impulsive  with  a  gun.  One  record  Johnny  points  to  is  a  vinegar 
pie  he  bakes  at  Yogo.  It  seems  that  while  the  pie's  in  the  oven,  a  pros- 
pector, Bedrock  Jim,  with  whom  he's  bachin',  puts  some  giant  powder 
in  with  the  pie  to  thaw  it  out.  The  powder,  likely  becomin'  jealous  of 
the  pie,  cuts  loose  and  scatters  the  cabin  for  miles  up  and  down  the 
gulch.  They  find  one  stove  lid  on  Lost  Fork,  and  the  pan  the  pie's  in 
is  missin',  but  there  where  the  cabin  once  stood  is  Vinegar,  himself, 
without  even  a  scar. 

Bein'  discouraged  in  his  light  cookin',  an'  never  workin'  as  long  as 
he  can  get  anything  else  to  do,  Johnny  begins  figgerin'  out  a  soft  way  of 
makin'  a  livin'.  His  pious  disposition  inclines  him  toward  missionary 
work,  finally,  and  he  picks  out  the  Little  Rockies  as  the  most  promisin' 
district  to  begin  reformiu'.  He  starts  a  revival  there  that's  a  cross 
between  Mormonism  an'  a  Sioux  ghost  dance,  but  this  brand's  too  tough 
for  even  the  citizens  of  this  section. 

In  them  days  Landusky  is  the  principal  town  in  the  Little  Rockies, 
an'  it's  a  sociable  camp,  life  there  bein'  far  from  monotonous.  The 
leadin'  industries  is  saloons  an'  gamblin'  houses,  with  a  fair  sprinklin' 
of  dance  halls.  For  noise  an'  smoke  there  wasn't  nothin'  ever  seen  like 
it  before  the  big  fight  in  Europe  starts.  Little  lead's  wasted,  as  the 
shootin's  remarkably  accurate  an'  almost  anybody  serves  as  a  target. 

The  mayor,  Jew  Jake,  has  lost  one  hind  leg  in  a  argument  with  a 
sheriff,  and  he  uses  a  Winchester  for  a  crutch.  Funerals  in  Landusky 
is  held  at  night  under  a  white  flag,  so  that  business  ain't  interrupted  in 
the  daytime. 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  65 

It's  toward  this  peaceful  village  that  Johnny  rides  one  day  on  a 
boss  that  he's  borrowed  from  a  rancher  who  isn't  in  when  he  calls. 
Johnny  don't  know  he's  near  a  town  till  he  hears  it  a  few  miles  away. 
Spurrin '  his  hoss  along  he  suddenly  busts  into  sight  of  the  place,  which 
reminds  him  of  a  chromo  of  Gettysburg  he  once  seen.  But  Johnny's 
game,  an'  mutterin'  somethin'  that  might  have  been  a  short  prayer,  he 
passes  through  the  firin'  line,  bein'  shy  only  his  hat  and  a  cigarette  he 
was  smokin'  when  he  arrives. 

Either  the  excitement  or  somethin'  he  takes  for  it  puts  him  into  a 
kind  of  trance  for  a  few  days,  an'  when  he  comes  to  he's  laid  out  on  a 
poker  table  with  his  head  hangin  off.  He  takes  readily  to  the  life  of 
the  place,  an  picks  as  his  partner  Dum  Dum  Bill,  who's  got  the  reputa- 
tion of  bein'  a  quiet,  scholarly  man  with  a  lovable  character,  always 


Komindt   Him   «f  >  Chromo  «f  O*tt7«b«r( 


56 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


shootin'  to  kill  to  save  unnecessary  pain  an'  sufferin'.  Dum  Bum's 
made  a  hobby  of  changin'  brands  on  bosses,  an'  he's  done  much  to  dis- 
courage gamblin'  by  makin'  it  hard,  if  not  impossible,  for  other  players 

in  a  game  he's  sittin'  in  to  win.  His  end's 
a  sad  one.  Bein'  caught  by  a  war  party 
of  Missourians  who's  had  bad  luck  with 
their  hoss  herds,  he's  strung  up  to  a  corral 
crossbar.  As  he  hasn't  got  enough  weight 
below  his  head  to  break  his  neck,  his  end's 
hastened  by  tuckin'  an  anvil  into  the  seat 
of  his  pants. 

Johnny,  after  thro  win'  in  with  Dum 
Dum  Bill,  does  a  lot  of  good  as  a  reformer. 
It's  due  to  him  that  the  custom  of  shootin' 
at  unarmed  strangers  is  barred,  an'  a 
bounty — a  little  less  than  they  paid  for  a 
wolf — is  placed  on  a  number  of  citizens. 
As  he's  in  with  the  reformers,  Johnny's 
name  ain't  on  this  list.  The  bounty 
claimer  has  to  show  both  ears  of  his  victims 
but  scalpin '  is  frowned  on  as  uncivilized. 

Johnny's  in  much  demand  for  preach- 
in'  funeral  sermons,  but  sometimes  he  ain't 
got  much  tact.  At  one  buryin'  where  the 
deceased's  been  killed  in  a  gun  battle, 
Johnny  takes  as  his  text,  "When  Fools  Go 
Forth  to  Fight."  The  relatives  of  the 
corpse  get  hostile  and  Johnny  has  to  spend 
the  next  three  weeks  in  a  stockade  he's 
built  around  his  house  for  an  emergency 
like  this.  After  a  while  he's  elected  mayor, 
but  as  he  ain't  over-good  with  a  forty-five, 
he  don't  take  the  job. 

Some  forms  of  killin'  was  barred  in 
Landusky,  an'  when  Johnny  makes  a  pud- 
din'  for  a  Thank  sgivin'  dinner  that  kills 
three  guests  and  disables  several  more,  he 
has  to  make  a  quick  get-away.  He  beats  a  posse  to  the  railroad  by  a 
dozen  jumps  and  swings  under  the  rods  of  a  freight  train  that's  passin'. 

I  never  took  no  stock  in  the  rumors  that  was  scattered  about  Johnny 
afterward  joinin'  the  Curry  gang.  The  Kid  once  tells  me  he'd  give 
five  hundred  dollars  for  the  name  of  the  man  that  starts  this  libel 
against  his  hold-up  outfit. 


Dum    Dam   Bill 


The  Horse 

IEEAD  in  the  papers  a  while  back  where  there's  seventy  thousand 
wild  hosses  on  the  ranges  of  Montana,  says  Rawhide.       They  say 
these  animals  are  a  menace  to  stockmen.     Mebbe  this  is  right,  but 
I  think  it  would  bother  this  old  state  to  round  up  that  many  tame  ones. 

A  few  years  ago  a  hoss  was  considered  kind  of  handy  to  have 
around.  He  was  needed  everywhere  and  used  all  ways,  tip  hill  or 
down,  mud  or  dust,  he  worked.  They  made  no  good  roads  for  him. 
There's  not  a  city  in  mighty  near  the  whole  world  he  didn't  help  build. 
There's  a  few  ice-bound  countries  where  the  hoss  don't  live,  and  in  these 
same  lands  it  ain't  easy  for  humans  to  live. 

This  last  war  was  a  machine-made  hell,  but  I  doubt  if  it  could  have 
been  win  without  hosses,  an'  the  same  kind  that  some  folks  say  is  a 
menace  to  men  now.  There  was  thousands  of  branded  hosses  died  with 
our  fighters  on  the  other  side.  The  range  hoss  was  God-made,  an'  like 
all  of  his  makin',  the  best.  These  hosses  cost  the  man  that  branded 
an'  claimed  'em  nothing.  They  lived  on  the  grass  an'  water  the 
Almighty  gave  'em. 

Many  thousand  years  ago,  when  folks  was  all  a-foot,  lizards,  horned 
toads  an'  bullfrogs  measured  from  thirty  to  a  hundred  feet  in  length  an' 
stood  from  forty  to  sixty  hands.  Besides  these  there  was  tigers  and 
laffin'  hyenas  that  would  eat  an  elephant  for  breakfast.  From  what 
I've  read,  in  the  days  I'm  talkin'  about,  man  wasn't  much,  an'  he  sure 
lived  simple.  A  good,  stout  cave  was  his  home.  He  fed  mostly  on  bugs 
an'  snails,  an'  a  grasshopper  that  happened  to  'light  anywhere  near  him 
or  his  family  was  out  of  luck.  Sometimes  some  real  game  gent  would 
slip  out  with  his  stone  tomahawk  an'  bring  back  a  skunk  or  two.  Then's 
when  they  pulled  a  regular  feed,  but  there  wasn't  no  set  date  for  these 
feasts,  an'  they  mostly  came  far  apart.  With  a  hyena  that  weighed 
seven  ton  a-laffin'  around  the  door,  man  loved  his  home  an'  Maw  never 
worried  about  where  Paw  was. 

But  one  day  one  of  these  old  home-lovers  was  sunnin'  himself  an' 
layin'  for  a  grasshopper,  when  he  looks  down  from  his  ledge  to  the  val- 
ley below  where  all  these  animals  is  busy  eatin'  one  another,  an'  notices 
one  species  that  don't  take  no  part  in  this  feast,  but  can  out-run  an' 
out-dodge  all  others.  This  cave  man  is  progressive  an'  has  learned  to 
think.  He  sees  this  animal  is  small  compared  to  the  rest,  an'  ain't  got 
no  horns,  tusks  or  claws,  eatin'  nothin'  but  grass.  There's  other  grass- 
eaters,  but  they  all  wear  horns  that  don't  look  good  to  Mister  Cave  Man. 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES  69 

He  remembers  when  his  Maw  used  to  pack  him  on  her  back.  Bein ' 
a  lazy  gent  he's  lookin'  for  somethin'  easy,  an'  he  figgers  that  if  he 
could  get  this  hornless  animal  under  him,  he  could  ride  once  more  like 
he  did  in  his  childhood.  Eight  then  is  Avhen  man  starts  thinkin'  of 
somethin'  besides  eatin'. 

Not  far  from  the  cave  there's  a  trail  where  herds  of  hosses  come 
to  water,  so  one  day  Mister  Man  climbs  into  a  tree  that  hangs  over  the 
trail,  an'  with  a  grapevine  loop  he  snares  one  of  these  animals.  But  he 
finds  out  that  though  this  beast  ain't  got  horns  or  claws,  he's  mighty 
handy  with  all  four  feet,  and  when  Paw  sneaks  home  that  evenin'  he's 
got  hoof  marks  all  over  him  an'  he  ain't  had  a  ride  yet.  Sore  as  he  is, 
he  goes  back  next  day  an'  tries  again.  About  the  sixth  day  this  poor 
hoss  is  so  starved  that  Mister  Man  gets  up  to  him,  an'  tyin'  a  strip  of 
bark  to  his  under  jaw  an'  another  around  his  belly,  he  steps  across  the 
hoss.  The  bronc  sinks  his  head  an'  goes  in  the  air.  Mister  Man  stays, 
but  he  breaks  all  the  rules  in  a  ridin'  contest  of  today.  He  don't  pull 
leather,  but  tears  all  the  mane  out  from  ears  to  withers,  an'  that  bark 
hand -hold  of  his  is  all  that  keeps  the  hoss  from  unloadin'  him.  A  few 
days  later  his  bronc  is  plumb  gentle.  Paw  mounts,  goes  out  an'  with 
a  stone-headed  spear  kills  a  wild  cow,  an'  he  comes  back  to  the  cave 
with  the  hide  an '  more  meat  than  the  folks  ever  seen  before.  The  family 
is  so  pleased  with  this  useful  pet  that  they  bring  him  in  the  cave  nights, 
an'  all  get  busy  pullin'  grass  for  him. 

Mister  Man  finds  that  with  four  legs  under  him  instead  of  two,  he 
can  ride  rings  around  them  big  lizards,  an '  there  ain  't  any  of  them  claw- 
wearin',  tusk-bearin'  critters  can  overtake  him.  The  old  gent  snares 
more  hosses,  an'  it  ain't  long  till  the  whole  family's  hoss-back.  When 
this  bunch  starts  out,  armed  an'  mounted,  they  sure  bring  home  the 
bacon.  Meat — I'd  tell  a  man.  This  cave  looks  an' smells  like  a  pa ckin' 
plant  before  the  pure  food  law.  It's  now  mankind  sheds  the  leaf  gar- 
ments of  old  Grandad  Adam  an'  starts  wearin'  new  clothes. 

Paw's  wearin'  a  head-an'-tail  cowskin;  the  boys  has  a  yearlin'  robe 
apiece.  Maw  an '  the  girls  wouldn 't  be  in  style  at  all  these  days.  Mebbe 
it's  modesty — it  might  be  the  chill  in  the  weather — but  they're  sure 
covered  from  ears  to  heels  in  deer  an'  elk  skins,  an'  from  that  day  to 
just  lately  man  never  knowed  whether  his  sweetheart  was  knock-kneed 
or  bow-legged. 

Since  that  old  bug-eater  snared  that  first  cayuse,  his  descendents 
have  been  climbin',  an'  the  hoss  has  been  with  'em.  It  was  this  animal 
that  took  'em  from  a  cave.  For  thousands  of  years  the  hoss  an'  his 
long-eared  cousins  furnished  all  transportation  on  land  for  man  an' 
broke  all  the  ground  for  their  fannin'.  He  has  helped  build  every 
railroad  in  the  world.  Even  now  he  builds  the  roads  for  the  automo- 


60 


RAWHIDE  RAWLINS  STORIES 


bile  that  has  made  him  nearly  useless,  an'  I'm  here  to  tell  these  machine- 
lovers  that  it  will  take  a  million  years  for  the  gas  wagon  to  catch  up 
with  the  hoss  in  what  he's  done  for  man.  Today  some  of  these  auto 
drivers  want  to  kill  him  off  to  make  fertilizer  out  of  his  body.  Mebbe 
I'm  sentimental,  but  I  think  it's  a  damned  hard  finish  for  one  that  has 
been  as  good  a  friend  to  man  as  the  hoss. 


Mighty    Ilnn.ly    With  All  Four  Feet 


Adios 


,     /<-4Ar> 


•& 


y* 


